The Battle of Taillte
by John Creel
Summary: It all ends on the Hill of Taillte. One last battle to decide the victor of an age-old conflict. Human and fairy will cross blades in a cataclysmic struggle, a final outpouring of hatred and madness that will leave ashes and tragedy in its wake. The war, terrible and senseless, has finally reached its end, and no war has a happy ending. Rated T for violence and language.
1. Prelude to Battle

**Author's Note:**

**I got bored and ended up writing this. It's just my take on the event, though do not expect complete historical accuracy. If I end up continuing it there would be only two more chapters. Nothing long, perhaps 15-20 thousand words max. Anyway, maybe some of you will enjoy it.  
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**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

The lush countryside stretched as far as the eye could see, its grassy fields and verdant forests swaying gently in the summer breeze. A golden sky with a faint tint of crimson overlooked the land, and the sun, the source of this morning glory, blazed just above the horizon. It was only the start of the day, but it was already sultry, and the warm breeze brought only a little respite from the summer heat.

Birds sang overhead, insects buzzed their way about, and little creatures scurried along the earth. The scent of hawkweed, which grew plentifully in the grasslands, was carried overhead by the wind, and many other floras graced the fertile expanse.

It was a beautiful day, and to all it would seem like just another in a long line of ordinary summer days. But that was not to be, for if one looked to the most elevated area of the rolling grassland they would see the sharp glint of polished metal reflecting the sun's rays, and a massive sprawl of tents that covered the green surface of the hill. It was an encampment, one of enormous size and formidability, and there it loomed on top of the hill, almost silent as the air nearly congealed with dreadful anticipation.

_The calm before the storm…There is no greater dread…_

At the highest reach of the hill stood Qwan, an ancient warlock who had lived many thousands of years upon the earth he now stood. Yet those many years did nothing to prepare him for this. No one, not even he, had ever witnessed something of this scale ever before.

The army around him was composed of the diverse species that constituted the fairy people. Elves, dwarfs, sprites, pixies, centaurs, demons, gnomes, goblins; all of these differing peoples stood together under a series of vibrant banners, united against a common foe.

The humans, that's what their foe was called. A relatively young race of sentient beings that had only been building civilizations for a fraction of the time the fairies had. They had emerged over many millenniums, primitive in their ways and brutal in their tendencies. At first the fairies only gave them the slightest of interest, and even then it was the repulsed kind. The humans were seen as obsolete vermin; as creatures that were inferior to the great people that the fairies had become. Such a viewpoint had dominated their ideology for countless generations, and though it had once been legitimate, it was now a terrible miscalculation.

The humans, much to the dismay of their fairy counterparts, did something that the fairies could not. They grew at a rate that was appallingly fast, their population and advancements taking everyone by surprise. The civilizations of humanity appeared almost out of nowhere, and the People, so arrogant in their belief that the humans were not capable of anything bigger than a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, were far too late to adapt. Soon the humans spread to every continent, their newfound coordination and intelligence amplified by their might, and their desire for greatness fueling their perpetual efforts to become even stronger.

Qwan had watched all of this happen over the years, and now, as he stood on the eve of battle, he knew that this moment was fated. With the rise of the humans, there was no way that the fairies could coexist with them. They tried, but both sides distrusted each other, and the humans, after being subject to a long history of being mistreated and looked down upon by the magical races, were in no mood to compromise. That was how the first tensions began, and with the rise of the human civilizations and pressure of the fairy kingdoms, such would only get worse. After hundreds of years of political and social tension, all it took was a little provocation to spark a war between their species. And so, as was feared for so many centuries, the People went to war with humanity.

It was a bloody and merciless war, and Qwan detested every moment of it. He had always been an intellectual and a pacifist, but as a wielder of magic and a respected leader of the warlocks, he was automatically expected to defend the people—to use the gift of magic to destroy rather than to create. King Frond and the fairy council had left him little choice but to partake, as refraining from action was seen as an act of treason. Qwan hated it, but he hated even more the prospect of his kind being wiped out by the humans. That could not be allowed to happen. Yet, despite such convictions, that was precisely what had been happening.

The war had spanned continents and centuries, and despite their efforts it was the fairies, not the humans, who were losing. Fairies could be formidable warriors and brilliant tacticians, but the humans were a species born in conflict and struggle, and they were far more brutal and resilient than the fairies could ever hope to be. Battle after battle had been fought, campaign after campaign had been undertaken, and with the ruin of hundreds of thousands of lives over hundreds of years, it all came down to this—a final battle that would decide who ruled the world.

Looking out over the summer landscape, Qwan sighed in resignation. Truly, after all of his efforts to avert this, there was no other way it could end.

So occupied was he with these thoughts that he failed to notice the elf walking up behind him until a hand grabbed him by the shoulder. Startled, the warlock turned about to see who it was.

"You look nervous, old friend."

It was Aldreda Holen. She was the commander of the elven light infantry division, and an undisputed heroine of the People. Her skill with a blade was unmatched, and her character, fiery and courageous, made her a natural and respected leader. Everyone adored her, and she adored everyone in return, citing the existence of an altruistic side of her that was in many cases hidden by the ferocity she displayed in battle. Qwan had known her for over a hundred years, and seeing her now made him feel a little better.

"I believe that we are all nervous," he said after a moment.

"Understandable," Aldreda replied, crossing her arms. "But we can't let it get to us. Not when the humans are mustering to destroy us all."

Qwan nodded, studying Aldreda's hazel eyes and finding no fear or uncertainty within them. How he envied her strength!

"This battle…" Aldreda continued, looking off into the distance. "It will be the last I partake in. I will either perish in the field or succeed over the enemy, of that I am certain." Her hazel eyes were cold and there was a glimmer of torment within them. "After so many decades of fighting to survive, perhaps this will be the end of it. Perhaps I will find rest. One way or another…"

Qwan frowned, but said nothing. Words could not impart enough of what he wished to express. He studied Aldreda anew as she stared off into the distance, noting the faint scars that marred her face. She had been in the war since day one, and had survived what most of her friends and family had failed to. Countless times she had almost died of her wounds, but countless times more she persevered and lived on; one of only a handful of fairies who had managed to be lucky enough to make it through since the beginning. But luck had nothing to do with it, at least not with Aldreda. She was a survivor, and nothing, not even the wicked blades or the piercing the arrows of her enemies, could keep her from living.

Despite the marks that her survival imparted, she was strikingly beautiful, her auburn hair glowing in the sunlight and her visage the epitome of reckless beauty. She was not the fair or delicately attractive type, but rather the dangerous, physically fit, and tough sort of female. Such made her popular with the male elves, but they never got remotely close to a relationship with her. Aldreda had already given her heart and soul—and incidentally her body—to her husband seventy years ago, and their marriage had been a perfect one that moved romantics to tears. Qwan had attended the wedding, and he could still remember the beauty of it all. But such memories only served to make bitter his troubled mind. Aldreda and her husband's relationship had been forged in war, both of them being capable fighters and leaders within the elven ranks. They fought side-by-side in countless battles, their love a fire that made their skill in battle ever more passionate and dedicated. To say the least they were an unstoppable pair. Or so they had once been.

It happened ten years ago during a small skirmish in the lowlands. The humans ambushed Aldreda's contingent while they were encamped, employing their ruthless tactics in the dark of night. The assault caught the fairies off guard, and in moments over half of them had been slaughtered. For an hour the fight waged as Aldreda and her husband tried to move the survivors to safety, and it was an hour of hell on earth. And at its end, when their escape was cut off, her husband saved her from a human sharpshooter, taking an arrow that would have ended her life. It was a terrible moment, and it broke Aldreda completely. She lost all control, her grief and anger translating into one of the most horrific displays of killing a single fairy had ever done. She cut down all of the humans, one by one, until nothing but corpses remained—well over two-hundred men. She sustained mortal wounds in the process, but Qwan had heard of the battle and reached her in time to save her. The same could not be said for her one true love.

Seeing Aldreda observing the rising sun over the golden fields, Qwan could tell that she was thinking of him—the elf that had been everything to her. There was no sadness or anger in her eyes, because such emotions were cleverly hidden. But the lines on her face, and the way she rested her hand on her husband's sword—which she had carried since his death—made it clear as day. It would seem that ten years of living without him had done nothing to dull the pain. Nothing ever would.

The silence between them persisted as they thought their own thoughts. A gentle breeze washed over them, bringing with it a smell of flowers that helped offset the overbearing scent of smoke, sweat, and fear. It moved Aldreda's hair ever so slightly, but it did nothing to change her cold expression.

"Qwan," Aldreda said softly, breaking the silence.

The warlock locked eyes with her, affirming his attention.

"I'm sorry to burden you with this," she continued, frowning a little, "But if I fall today, could you please take care of Elaine? I trust no one more than you."

Her words made a sad feeling rise within his chest. Elaine was Aldreda's only daughter, born eight months after her father's death. That poor girl, born into war and grief, had never seen her father, and rarely saw her warrior mother. She was currently being cared for by some distant relatives, but the arrangement was only meant to be temporary. Aldreda always spoke of the war ending; of being able to be a _real_ mother to her beloved Elaine. It was her greatest wish, and after losing her husband it was her only hope.

Qwan could not refuse such a request, not after all they had been through together; not after how much he cared for her.

"It is no burden, Aldreda," he said softly, smiling a little. "I will do as you ask, but I know I won't have to. You will take care of Elaine yourself. You will make it through this."

The elf smiled, her cold eyes betraying sadness and yearning. "If only such dreams could come true." She then looked back into the distance, watching as a flock of little birds broke from the treetops and flew into the golden sky.

The two of them stood there in silence, the only sound being the hushed chatter of other soldiers and the clatter of shifting armor and weapons. Several minutes passed, and then, with a suddenness that did not surprise Qwan one bit, Aldreda whispered.

"That's my greatest regret…"

Qwan did not ask what she meant—he knew all too well. The sorrow of a widowed elf, and the shame of an absent mother, were the only two things that could make the hardened elf cry.

Aldreda did not speak again, content to watch as the sun rose higher into the sky. It was a beautiful day, and the fairies, so attuned with nature, felt a longing for it. But no such thing could be afforded today. The beauty of the moment would soon be drenched in blood.

A sound pierced above the relative silence, one of the army's trumpets. Its pattern was sharp and foreboding, and everyone instantly knew what it meant. It send a wave of dreadful anticipation through the camp, and for Qwan it was the confirmation of the inevitable horror he would have to face.

Aldreda shifted beside him, her armor making only a little sound as she tightened her gauntlets. Her face was now set in a look of iron determination, and her eyes, previously cold and haunted, now burned with a fire that could only be described as legendary.

"Let's go," she said. "They'll be waiting for us in the front."

"Aye…" Qwan said, following the elf as she pressed through the congested camp. _The time has finally come._

The two of them made their way through the areas that housed the main body of the army, passing friends and colleagues alike as they did so. Fairies of all kinds sat around cooking fires and makeshift smithies, eating what could be their last meal and ensuring that their weapons were sharp. None of them said anything, but their gazes were a clear affirmation of their confidence in the elf and the warlock. It made Qwan frown a little. So many souls were depending on them, but for what? They needed heroes, but truly, in this terrible conflict, was there even such a thing? And if there were, what could even the greatest of heroes do against the overwhelming odds? Qwan entertained this morbid thinking for only a few seconds, and then cast it aside. Pessimism like that would only get people killed, and he knew that Aldreda, had she caught him ever saying anything like that, would certainly leave a few bruises on his shoulder as a reminder of his stupidity.

It took several minutes for them to reach the front of the encampment, their journey taking them past the organized divisions of various fairy kinds that amounted to over ten-thousand strong. When they were through the amassing ranks of infantry and their tents, the view opened up and gave them a clear sight of the fields below them, and, most importantly, the gathering of officers and royalty that stood a few yards beyond the encampment. Banners and messengers were clustered around them, but it was impossible not to notice the Elven High King, Erendael Frond.

King Frond sat upon a portable throne, looking into the distance as his advisers and messengers gave him updates on the situation. His heavy armor, of the utmost quality, was plated with gold and fine jewels, and his sword, which rested beside him, was the epitome of masterful craftsmanship. The way his armor glinted a brilliant gold in the sunlight gave him a godly appearance, and his visage, regal and composed, was shining with overt intelligence. At first glance many would think him a selfish and extravagant king, one who did not know the hardships of life. But that was not the case. The Frond line had always been a noble one, not in its status but in its acts and convictions. They had always been proponents of peace and prosperity, and in times of war they had always led their people to glory, fighting and bleeding alongside the common folk. This made them respected by all with few exceptions. Erendael was the continuation of thousands of years of tradition, and his reign, which had lasted for several hundred years, was commendable given the circumstances.

Since the start of the war the King had led the People, doing his best to keep them from falling over the brink. His practices were tough and sometimes merciless, but that was what war did to everyone. Countless heavy decisions that resulted in the loss of life had taken their toll on him over the years, and even though he was middle-aged his golden hair was showing signs of grey. No one, not even the High King, could escape the horrors of war, nor brave the test of time. He was mortal, just as they all were, and he never dared consider himself anything but.

Qwan and Aldreda walked towards the King's throne, passing the other commanders of the People's combined forces. Dmitar Grundin of the dwarfs, Nephan Screeth of the sprites, Cillian Tryndiran of the centaurs, N'zall Bludyn of the demons, Blazar Scalyn of the goblins, and Jarmil Kendth of the gnomes—together with Aldreda and Qwan they represented the greatest leaders of the People's armies, and the symbolic unity of fairykind.

"Finally decided to join us?" N'zall grumbled at Qwan, his wicked teeth glinting in the sunlight.

Qwan gave the other demon a glance, but said nothing. There had always been friction between those two demons—one a wise warlock and the other a brutal warrior—and over the years their interactions had not improved. They were polar opposites, and it showed all time.

The two of them continued onwards until they were before the throne. King Frond, looking up from a map to regard them, smiled only a little.

"Ah, my good friends Aldreda and Qwan. I was beginning to wonder where you two were."

"My apologies for our tardiness, Your Highness," Aldreda said, bowing deeply. "We are at your disposal."

Qwan had bowed as well, and voiced something similar.

King Frond nodded at them, but made a dismissive gesture immediately thereafter. "There is no need for such formality now. Not after all that we have been through together. Not on the eve of battle, when bonds of friendship and camaraderie should not be restricted by formalities and bureaucracy. You are two of my greatest officers, but you are also two of my greatest friends. So please, rest at ease."

Aldreda and Qwan stood up fully, never taking their eyes off of their King.

"We heard the signal and came as quickly as we could," Aldreda said immediately, her tone grave. "You request our audience, and that can only mean one thing."

"Indeed," King Frond said, a frown slowly working its way across his face. "The human army has been spotted by our scouts. It marches on Taillte as we speak."

Qwan nodded, seeing that the King had been reading a written report from one of the scouting sprites.

"How many?"

"Far too many to count I'm afraid," Frond replied. "However, the scout's best estimate was a hundred-thousand men, possibly more."

"Shades…" Aldreda whispered, trying to imagine the scale of the army. It was appalling to say the least.

"That is why I summoned you here," Frond continued, leaning forward. "We must make our final preparations for battle. We don't have much time."

Aldreda nodded resolutely, having already beaten back her shock. "I will have my division mobilized and ready within the hour."

"As will the rest of you, my friends," Frond said to the other commanders. They all voiced their commitment to their orders, and quickly rushed off to their respective units. Only Aldreda and Qwan remained, but they only hung back for a moment. King Frond, after seeing that the others were out of earshot, looked at both of them with a sincere expression.

"I trust you two far more than any of the others, and my confidence in your abilities is absolute. I wish you well in this, and please, if the gods will it, survive what is coming. I am counting on you."

"I will do my best," Qwan replied.

"As will I," Aldreda said.

King Frond smiled just a little, his regal face betraying the lines of age and overpowering stress.

"That is more than enough for me. Now go, do not let an old king keep you from your duties."

They saluted and left in silence, leaving Frond behind and hustling back into the camp. The smell of campfires and forges wafted around them, and the heat from them made the warm summer air shimmer. The promised warmth of the summer day was already taking hold, and it made everyone, especially those laden with armor and gear, sweat profusely. Neither Aldreda nor Qwan paid any heed to its annoyance. Such was just another metric in battle—another force that would dictate the fighting capability of the army.

"I guess we'll be parting ways for now," Aldreda said stoically as they reached the area of the encampment that housed the elven regiments.

"Aye," Qwan replied. "I'll be off to gather the other warlocks."

Aldreda stopped walking, but she kept her eyes on his. She smiled slightly, and even such a subtle gesture from her was reassuring. "I will see you on the field. Best of luck, old friend."

"Best to you as well," Qwan replied, doing his best to smile in return.

He started to leave, walking onward into the camp, but he only got a few feet when he heard her whisper, ever so softly, the name that troubled her most.

"Elaine…"

Qwan stopped abruptly, feeling her sadness as his own.

"I promise."

With that quiet exchange they parted ways, each seeing to the duties of war that rested on their shoulders. The blare of trumpets and the steady roll of drums made clear the orders that came from the commanders, and it set an ominous tune for the final stages that were to be the prelude to the brutal confrontation with the humans. Fires were doused and tents were dismantled; armor was affixed and weapons were strapped; banners were raised and along with them shouts of bravery. Words of hope, words of courage, and words of strength were loud and clear as brothers and sisters in arms bore each other's burdens—the burdens of fear and uncertainty. Thousands upon thousands of souls moved like the river flow, forming companies, battalions, regiments, and then entire divisions, to the point that their numbers spanned the entire hillside in an organized body of warriors. Armor and weapons glinted in the morning light, and overhead blazed its source, the golden orb of the sun bearing witness to beginning of the end—the dawn of a battle that would forever reverberate throughout the world and into the furthest reaches of time itself.

**Twenty Miles from Taillte**

The peaceful calm of the lush countryside was no more. The cheerful song of birds was replaced by the sharp cacophony of shifting armor and weaponry. The steady noise of flowing rivers and streams was drowned out by the constant roll of war drums and of the countless footfalls that matched their rhythm. The green of the grassy hillsides and valleys slowly gave way to varying shades of more practical colors, as well as the glint of shaped metal, as a solid mass of imposing figures washed over the land.

Tens of thousands of human warriors, of all creeds and origins, marched together as one, and their destination, however distant it was at the moment, was locked in their minds along with their ultimate intentions. Such intentions, after decades of prolonged warfare, were straight to the point and brutally simple. Destroy the People's last army. Such a violent goal had by no means been the norm a hundred years ago. If anything the strife and madness of war had made everyone hate the People, even those who had originally opposed the conflict. Humans had always resented the fairies for their aloofness, but it had never been absolute hatred. But when the war was sparked by mutual misunderstanding and distrust, and the blood of thousands of people began to flow in the streets and in the rivers of once peaceful lands, there was ignited a collective rage in humanity—a passionate desire to end the war by any means necessary, and by extension end the ones who had, from their perspective, started it. Whatever resistance to fight evaporated when fairy forces annexed human colonies, and when some of these invaders, particularly the demons, conducted wholesale slaughters of their defenseless populations. Truly nothing persuaded humans more than the death of their kin.

Before the onset of the war humanity had been a disorganized collection of agricultural settlements, frontier colonies, and autonomous city states. A few kingdoms existed, ruled by patriarchs and clan leaders, but they were nothing compared to the People's sprawling realms. Though humanity had grown enormously, they fought amongst each other over the silliest of matters, and there was not a moment when there was peace between them. But that all changed when their relations with the fairies reached a flashpoint. The war erupted almost by surprise for the humans, and it was clear to even the most selfish tribal leaders and kings that humanity had no chance against the People's combined armies if they continued to fragment and bicker amongst themselves. If they did not unite against the fairy threat, they were doomed to be wiped out one by one, subjugated or slaughtered by their self-absorbed fairy neighbors. That was the one thing that scared everyone enough to force a temporary alliance—a mutual enemy.

And so, for the first time in humanity's short history, there was peace among their kind, and unity in their ambitions. The many thousands of tribes and settlements from all corners of the land traveled to hold war councils; to decide the partition of power and the formation of organized armies. It was difficult at first, but the constant incursions by the People's legions left very little room for noncooperation. Necessity, more than anything, led to agreement.

Humanity's warriors were reorganized into fighting armies, trained and supplied by all of the contributing states. The commanders of each army were elected by the war council, who looked for men of superb caliber in both intelligence and strength. Warriors in body yet tacticians in mind—these were the leaders that men needed and consequently yearned for. Many hundreds were appointed, and throughout the course of the war most of them perished in battle along with countless human warriors. It was a bloody struggle, one that pushed humanity to the brink, and for a while it seemed that all was lost. But it was when humanity was backed into a corner—threatened with total annihilation—that it truly reached its violent potential. Spurred on by the fact that there was no way out but to fight, humanity's armies regained ground on multiple fronts and pressured even the deeper reaches of the People's kingdom. It took over fifty years, but it all paid off when the People's armies were forced into full retreat, and their lands, once seen as impregnable, overrun. The humans laid waste to everything, such was their collective fury, and despite the fact that they had originally fought because such actions were committed against them, they failed to realize that they had become no better. But such was war, and such was the reality the world now beheld.

In the end, the war with the People took humanity to one last field of battle. King Frond and his allies were forced out of their capital city by a yearlong siege and into the countryside, where they managed to scrape together what remained of their armies. It was the People—not the humans—who were now on the brink, and all it would take was one last human victory to ensure their fall into oblivion. This prospect was the culmination of humanity's efforts, and as such all of its leaders were quick to support a final campaign against the fairies. Combining the entirety of their forces, the human factions created an army of the likes the world had never seen before. One hundred and sixty thousand men, all veterans of the war and fully equipped, was the final offensive action the humans were intending to make. Surely it would be enough.

The force was drawn together from numerous regions and amalgamated under one banner at the war council. There the human leaders decided who would command the most important campaign in the war. In the end it was no a difficult decision, for few of the human commanders had survived the war, and only one of them had survived a full thirty years of successive combat. That one man was named Acaed Sargon, and he was by far the most successful leader of humanity's forces. Over thirty years he had fought exactly four hundred and sixty engagements, and had lost only twenty of them. He was feared and respected by the People, and his warriors called him a god among men. But he did not believe such titles, and such pragmatism was another quality that made him ideal for the final command. The war council elected him by a landslide, and the day afterwards he embarked on the campaign, the massive army his to command. After twenty days of marching his force was now upon King Frond's last and finest army, and if his scouts were correct the elf was intent on making a stand.

_Noble to the end, Frond, but you are my enemy nonetheless._

General Sargon stood on a grassy knoll overlooking the countryside. From there he could observe as the army that had been entrusted to him poured across the land, its ranks stretching as far as the eye could see and followed by colossal supply trains. The dust that was kicked up by the thousands of feet cast a haze over everything, but Sargon was used to this, and he could see everything that mattered with more than enough clarity.

"A favorable day," he said as he observed the sky. "I would much rather enjoy it in peace and quiet while tilling my fields, but as with so many matters as of late, war will not allow it." He paused, noting the vultures that were beginning to follow the army from overhead. It made him frown. "Death follows us, and death awaits us. Such is the journey of a soldier in this war; seemingly doomed to fight forever." He looked to the horizon, where the golden sky met the green hills. "Hopefully this will be the last time we must draw our swords. Hopefully this is the last time I must orchestrate the spilling of blood."

His musings were interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of his scouts. The young man, no older than sixteen, rushed up to him with evident news, his tanned face covered with sweat.

"What is the word?" Sargon asked the boy.

"Just as you predicted," the scout replied, taking deep breaths. "The fairies are waiting for us at Taillte. The army gathered there is definitely Frond's."

"What is their strength?"

The scout frowned. "I couldn't be thorough in my examination; their patrols were very persistent. However I can say with confidence that Frond has amassed a force of over ten thousand swords. All of the fairy kinds are there as well, so they are diverse in their offensive capabilities."

General Sargon nodded, his face betraying nothing but a stern resolve.

"Then it will be a good fight. Such is fitting if it is to be the last."

He dismissed the scout soon thereafter, content with what he had been told. Really it was just confirmation of what he had suspected all along, but certainty was always better than assumptions, especially when it came to warfare.

General Sargon watched as his army progressed across the rolling countryside, knowing that every step it took forward was another step it took towards a point of no return. Once the battle began there was no going back, nor could anything but total victory or total defeat be the outcome. Though the end result was still an enigma, it was certain that both sides would be battered and worn by the end of the day. Even in victory there was defeat, because after all, war does not decide who wins, but rather who loses the least. Sargon was confident that he could ensure a relatively favorable outcome, but even then it would be at the cost of tens of thousands of lives. He was accustomed to accepting such losses—to deciding the fate of his men and knowingly sending them to die in the field of battle—it was unavoidable. But he still detested it nonetheless; one could not rationalize the tragic loss of life.

Watching as humanity moved ever closer to triumph or defeat, Sargon envisioned his elven counterpart doing the same.

"So it has come down to this, King Frond," he said quietly. "But you and I both know that this was fated. By the will of the gods, one of us will survive this terror, and one of us will fall. It may be you, or it may end up being me, but so be it. I just want this to be over. I just want for there to be an end to this foolish war. So let us cross blades, one last time, to decide who rules this world. In lieu of words and agreement, let the superior race take what is theirs through the shedding of blood and the reaping of lives."

Sargon paused, watching as the vultures circled overhead.

"No matter the outcome, they will have their fill."


	2. Commencement

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

The sun was at its apex, blazing above the countryside and bombarding it with its relentless energy. The air shimmered with heat, as if the whole world was a mirage, and the wind had all but disappeared, reducing the land to a suffocating stillness where not even a slight breeze offered its welcome touch. In the looming sky, which was cloudless and pure, drifted the dark shapes of vultures, their presence serving as a morbid prognostication of the events to come; a foretelling of madness and senseless violence, of vermillion stains. All was quiet but for the occasional call of a bird or the sharp report of shifting metal, the latter of which echoed from the hillside, where the sunlight reflected off of a sea of shaped metal as if it were a mirror.

King Frond's army stretched across the Hill of Taillte in a solid line, its vibrant banners hanging limply in the windless air, as if the sultry environment had sucked the life out of them. Its ranks were perfectly measured and compartmentalized into the various regiments that made up its numbers, making it an indomitable formation of professional soldiers that could be broken up into purposeful units at a moment's notice. Everyone was gathered now, their attire donned and their tools of war polished to a shine. Steel glinted everywhere, the edges of swords and the tips of spears appearing glorious in the sunlight. Such glory was an illusion, just like the deceitful nature of tales of heroism in battle—that there is a good and an evil, a light and darkness, a right and wrong, in the sidings of a conflict. The truth was nothing like that. It was coated in blood, and lies—their stench as pervasive as rot—could not conceal it. Though everyone looked splendid and honorable in their clean outfits and shining armor, their real nature would be made evident with a thick, coagulating coating of vermillion. Truth would be laid bare by sharp edges and sharp hearts, and hell would rejoice over it. Hell would be on earth this day.

Aldreda Holen stood at the forefront of the army, silent as she stared out into the shimmering distance of the countryside. Her hazel eyes were cold and filled with steel, and her visage was a solid barrier between the unforgiving world and her inner emotions. She felt sick inside, so very sick, but it was matched by a strength that made its influence negligible. Part of her hated war, detesting everything it had to do with, but another side of her, one that was of equal measure, knew that such senseless violence was unavoidable. Perhaps it was even necessary. Certainly it was here, with fairykind backed against a wall and left with no other option. Surely they were in the right this time. Surely it was a noble cause.

The elf suppressed a sigh, knowing better than to let her feelings blemish her outward indomitability. She was the commander of the elven light infantry, and as such she had to be strong, not for herself, but for them. In times like this, soldiers needed a leader that could put aside all of her prejudices and morals, all of her passions and fears, and become a being that could approach the relentless chaos of war with a stoic professionalism; a strength that made her impervious to what would drive others mad. Though in truth she was just as afraid as everyone else, she did not show it. Fear was contagious, and it could shatter the morale of an army if it was not controlled.

Behind Aldreda stretched the elven light infantry division—the last of the many that had once protected the People's realms. They stood shoulder to shoulder, two thousand five hundred strong, forming an imposing wall of metal and flesh. Their armor was nimble, consisting of a combination of scale and chainmail which were made out of a lightweight alloy that allowed for maximum mobility and defense. They were armed with well-crafted swords that had a slight and purposeful curve, and additionally each of them had a wicked-looking spear. No shields were present, and that was for two reasons. Firstly, trying to block a direct attack from a human with a shield was ludicrous, as an elf's arm would either break or, if not, they would still be sent sprawling. Secondly, they were light infantry, and heavy shields would negate that purpose. They had to be quick and decisive, wielding their weapons with both hands so as to be strong with their attacks. Given how they were half the size of their enemy, combat was more about evasion and speed rather than brutal confrontation. Such a strategy was evident in their division's motto, _"Gods grant us swiftness."_

Aldreda's division made up the right flank of Frond's army. Where she stood she could look to her left and behold the vast line of the combined force. She could see most of the other commanders at the forefront as well, each with their respective units. Everything was organized, down to the last fairy.

At both flanks of the formation were equal groups of Cillian Tryndiran's centaurs, who served as heavy cavalry and numbered at nine hundred. Behind the main force were the sprite brigades, under Nephan Screeth's command, numbering at twelve hundred. The dwarfs, who were Frond's sappers and engineers, were dispersed and actively working under the watchful eye of Dmitar Grundin; there were five-hundred or so of them. The middle ranks of the army, and consequently its backbone, was composed of multiple divisions. Middle left and middle right were the goblin and gnome battalions, numbering sixteen-hundred and eleven-hundred respectively. Pixies were scattered throughout the army as messengers and observers, as in a battle only a month ago most of their warriors had been wiped out. Front-center was the demons, the army's heavy infantry and veritable berserkers. Numbering at two thousand three hundred, they wore thick armor and carried sturdy shields, and were armed with a wide array of vicious swords, axes, spears, and pikes. Under N'zall Bludyn's command, the demons were the only battalions—aside from the heavy cavalry—that could take on the humans directly and not get slaughtered like cattle. They were also the most zealous.

Qwan's warlocks—only ten in total—were located in the middle as well, alongside Frond himself. The Elven king stood at the exact center of the line, at the forefront where he could see everything. Two hundred of his royal guard, the elite of the elite, loomed behind him, and the banners of his regency hung above in the hot, stagnant air.

Aldreda took all of this in without a word, silently contemplating the coming battle and what the gathered forces' capabilities were. Their plan was already set, but the battlefield always changed in ways that made plans obsolete; Aldreda knew that from firsthand experience. She needed to know everything she could so that, when the time came, she could make an informed and strategically sound decision. As her mind worked in the background, the elf looked forward towards the distant hills. A great haze was beginning to form on the horizon, rising like an approaching cloud and swirling in the sultry air. It was a vast wall of dust, kicked up from the dried earth by an unseen force that everyone knew. Soon the clouds of dust were accompanied by a distant rumble, one that sounded like thunder; yet with the clear sky, it was evident that this was no natural din. Aldreda eyed the clouds warily, her right hand reflexively resting on the pommel of her sword.

In the middle of the ranks, far from the female commander, Qwan shifted with discomfort. A fool would blame the heat, but he did not. He was afraid. Everyone was, except maybe for some of the crazier demons who were merely thirsting for blood. It was thick in the air—the tension of ten-thousand souls as they beheld the approaching clouds of dust—and along with it came a silence that was truly unsettling. No one spoke, and with the wind nonexistent and the fairy army static, the only sounds were those of the vultures overhead and the growing rumble in the distance. It was truly the most tense moment the warlock had ever experienced, and it only got worse. Glimmers of light began to appear in the distance, glinting through the obscuring haze of dust; the glint of metal.

_Here they come, _Qwan thought to himself, beholding the appearance of the first ranks of the human army. It slowly crested the distant hills, and with the topography no longer separating them from Frond's army, the sound of their countless footfalls increased dramatically. A minute passed, and soon the entirety of the distant hills and fields were consumed by the approaching tide of humanity. They trudged across the land, like an advancing sea of swaying grass. Their metal, sharp and purposeful, glinted in the hot sunlight, their promise of pain and death ominously foreshadowed by the flashing of their edges. The earth shook with the combined impact of tens of thousands of footfalls, and in the air rumbled the sound of their passing, all marked and timed by the rolling of drums that echoed like thunder. More minutes passed, and more and more battalions of the humans came into view, a never-ending tide of soldiers that dwarfed Frond's legions as does a bear dwarf a fox. It was appalling, even though everyone already knew the number of their enemy. Nothing could prepare them for seeing it in person, just as no amount of foreknowledge could truly prepare one for the brutal madness of combat.

A shudder went through the fairy ranks as the human forces continued to appear over the hills. Even the most battle-hardened warriors uttered a curse or a prayer in the face of such odds. Qwan silently offered a supplication of his own, hoping that the gods would favor them in what was soon to come. The warlock glanced to his left, where King Frond stood a few meters ahead of the front rank. The regal elf was observing the advancing enemy, his measured expression bespeaking determination and calculation. In his eyes, just barely visible to Qwan from afar, was a peculiar glimmer, one that Qwan rarely witnessed. The elven king may have appeared firm in his resolve, and he was, but he too was fearful of the situation they faced, understanding just as well as anyone that they were up against near impossible odds. Frond never backed down in the face of such terror, but he was still a mortal being, feeling fear and uncertainty just like the rankers all around him. Qwan read the king like an open book, understanding everything he saw, and with a discreet sigh returned his gaze to the distance, where the looming human army continued to grow.

_It will take a lot more than bravery to win this day, _the warlock mused, incapable of ignoring the reality of their position. Bravery was well and good, but there were only ten thousand of them—the last of the People's brave. Furthermore, the humans were brave as well, and driven by something that the fairies, even in their desperate situation, could not muster. When it came down to it, even when the fairies were more skilled fighter to fighter, the humans had a distinct advantage. _Yet we must face this terror of our own making, the consequences of our past, _the warlock thought, watching expressionlessly as the forward ranks of the human army engulfed the fields a few kilometers away. It would be minutes until they were upon them, and time seemed to go even faster, as if the divine powers were tricksters at heart. Before Qwan knew it the human army had come fully into view, its appalling size stretching to the hills in the distance. Dust filled the air in wispy clouds, and the sound of over a hundred thousand marching men rumbled throughout the countryside. The warlock could now take in their strength in its entirety, and what he calculated was a confirmation of his suspicions. It made him shudder, as if a cold breeze had washed over him. Truly any cold would have been a miracle. The heat was unbearable, and he had not the time or the will to ameliorate it—he would need all of his magic for what was to come next.

On the right flank, before the ranks of elven infantry, Aldreda blinked away the sweat that was coming down her brow in rivulets. Over the years she had grown accustomed to fighting in the heat, and yet she was perspiring heavily as she stood under the shade of her regiment's banner. No, it wasn't the heat. She regarded the human army, her hazel eyes glinting with intense resolve. There the enemy was, looming before her with its endless ranks of infantry. She studied it carefully.

The human army was not as organized or diversified as Frond's, but it made up for it with sheer numbers. Its warriors came from many lands and cultures, and so their attire and weaponry varied greatly, but that was where their differences ended. They were all humans, with limited capabilities compared to fairy folk, and they seemed to have the general distribution of warrior classifications. Spearmen, shield bearers, bowmen, heavy and light infantry, and others made up the ranks. Long spears, wicked swords, heavy axes, sturdy bows, throwing spears, thick shields, short swords, sickles, war clubs, slings, knives—their many weapons shone in the sunlight, as did their varied armor. Aldreda noted that there was no cavalry in the human ranks, much to her relief. It would seem that the humans had yet to domesticate and learn to use animals as tools of war. Without cavalry of any sort, the mobility of the human army was limited.

She studied their organization, and soon realized that they were far more systematized than she had initially thought. The human forces were divided into battalions of a thousand men, each with a generic but effective order of spears and shields in front and archers behind. From where she stood she could make out the battalion commanders, whose attire and behavior gave them away. Each had a flag bearer, and drummers for step and signaling, and there appeared to be a hierarchy of ranks below the commanders, making it so that the divisions of a thousand were kept relatively under control. Aldreda discovered all of this by observing the approaching army, which was now only two kilometers away. She had been fighting for decades, and had sharp eyes, making it possible for her to make such observations from afar with accuracy. She was glad she could, because with them she could use the elves at her command to greater effect. Knowledge was power, especially in warfare.

Aldreda scanned the human army with renewed wariness, searching for other details. An army of such magnitude needed to have a leader, as otherwise it would not be so ordered and stratified. No, the human tribes and patriarchies must have held another war council for this mobilization, and there they would have chosen their greatest tactician to lead their warriors to battle. Aldreda had fought against many such men, and defeated more than she lost to. But there was one who had risen above the others, a cunning man who had led his legions to victory on hundreds of occasions and crippled many of the People's armies. He was brutal, intelligent, and more than anything, not passionate about war itself, making him a foe who could look past the distractions of battle and his own prejudices to see the path to triumph; a human capable of retaining clarity of thought even in the worst of struggles. Aldreda had fought against his armies several times before, and those had been the most difficult skirmishes of her life; one of them had made her a widow. Even still, she had never fought him face-to-face. The female commander scanned the front line of the enemy force, searching until she found him. There he was, leading his men by example, walking strongly a few meters ahead of his soldiers. The sight of him made Aldreda frown, and it instilled in her both hatred and wariness—hatred for what he had taken from her, and wariness for what he could take next. Her hand clenched around the pommel of the sword on her right hip—her late husband's—and her eyes glinted with a warrior's enmity.

_So you are the one they chose to wipe us out, _she thought angrily._ It's been years since your ambush killed my husband, but it has never lost its sting. I will repay it, Acaed Sargon._

* * *

General Acaed Sargon regarded Frond's army with a calm expression, his eyes picking out every detail that was of importance to his work. He had come to a halt upon a small hillock, allowing him to see over the thick ranks of his forces and take in the whole of the battlefield. His army continued forward, the first two legions closing the distance between them and the Hill of Taillte until they were no more than a kilometer from the fairy line. Upon Sargon's gesture, his signals officer waved a flag while another blew a horn in a simple but meaningful tempo. The signal was relayed from battalion to battalion, the sound of trumpets and the waving of flags repeating across the miles of space that the army occupied. Each division came to a halt upon noticing the signal, and in a matter of seconds the entire force ceased its march. The roll of drums died out along with the rumble of many footfalls, and the dust began to clear almost immediately. Then there was silence; a powerful, otherworldly silence as the two armies stood opposite each other.

General Sargon continued to observe his enemy, silent as he studied their position and its surroundings. It was only after he had concluded on his findings that he nodded to one of his commanders, who subsequently took Acaed's banner—a once beautiful tapestry now worn by many years of use—and planted it firmly in the soil atop the hillock. The banner stood freely, and a slight breeze, almost unnoticeable, gently unfurled its otherwise lazily hanging colors. Sargon felt its presence behind him, very much used to the feeling it gave; many hundreds of times it had been at his back as he beheld the field of battle. It was a symbolic gesture that he always used. Here stood his banner, planted in fairy ground as a symbol of his army's defiance. Once the general's banner was planted, the battle was set in stone, the ground it claimed becoming sacrosanct. There would be no retreat, no quarter, and no compromise. Only upon total victory or utter defeat would his banner be removed. Until then, it would loom over the ranks of his army and bear witness to the horrors of war.

Sargon knew that his commanders were waiting eagerly on his word. Truth be told, having struggled through years of conflict, the entire army was itching to fight. They wanted an end to it, just as he did, though some just wanted blood. Sargon knew this as well. Regardless of their intentions, and in spite of their noble goal, there would always be the perversion of man's heart, the rise of their darkest proclivities. The general had no illusions; this battle was going to be bloody and horrific, and many of his men would find glee in its vermillion stain. He found it repulsive, but he was not one to judge. The humans had suffered greatly at the hands of the People, and in some ways this violence was but reciprocity. Not that an eye for an eye was an ideal paradigm; if anything, it was madness. But in this case it was the only way. All other avenues had been exhausted decades ago, crushed under the iron gears of war.

The general did nothing for a few intense moments, his thoughts focused and his eyes locked on the looming army. He appeared to be in deep cogitation, his visage contorted with a seriousness that could not be rivaled. In reality, however, he was preparing himself for what he would have to do, and for the consequences that would be his alone to bear as the appointed general of the combined forces. He hardened his mind, coating it with determination, and made his heart like steel—cold, solid, and merciless. In his position, one had to be moral and yet capable of putting aside any of such qualities, becoming a warrior who carried out his duty with a cold professionalism that left no room for the hesitancy that morality gave rise to. For what he was about to do, he turned himself in the feared general who had led many brutal campaigns; he turned himself into that which the People feared most. Externally it was a quick, unnoticeable change, and yet for Acaed it felt as though he had just closed off half of his very soul. Truly, if there was ever a soul-destroying profession, this was it.

As his legions awaited his command, and as Frond's army stood defiantly before him, General Sargon lifted his gaze to the sky, where the black forms of circling vultures glided. The carrion birds hovered gracefully in the sultry air, waiting for the scent of death. Indeed, they were Death's concierges. Sargon eyed them coldly, and then looked back down to the enemy forces. He spotted King Frond with ease, easily telling him apart from the other commanders in the People's forward ranks. They were a thousand meters away from each other, but Sargon knew—out of instinct and an unshakable premonition—that the elf was looking right back at him. He nodded slowly, a calculative glint in his eyes.

"Commander," he said firmly, never taking his eyes from Frond.

"Sir?" the officer behind him asked.

"It is time that I meet my adversary, face to face."

* * *

King Frond observed the human army from afar, easily spotting the general that led it. The elf showed no discomfort in the face of his enemy, nor did he betray the fear that was present deep within his chest. Over a hundred thousand men loomed before him, all intent on murdering every last fairy that lived on the surface. There had never been such an intense moment, and there had never been so much stacked against the People. Frond understood what this meant, but he remained certain in his countenance, knowing that everyone—even his commanders—were depending on him to show the strength of the People's hearts. As their king, he could not afford to be anything less than the spitting image of courage and sound judgment.

As the elven king observed the humans, he noticed movement in the forward ranks. It did not surprise him, and as he noted it he did not hesitate to conclude and take action.

"Their general wishes to meet us before battle," he stated regally, as if it was completely inconsequential.

Several of Frond's commanders were beside him, those whose units constituted the middle ranks. Jarmil Kendth was one of them, and when he heard the king speak he looked to him beseechingly.

"What are you orders, My Lord? Shall we accept their audience?"

N'zall Bludyn, the demon commander, was at Frond's left, and upon hearing this he growled with unconcealed zeal. "Let me kill them, Lord Frond. We can cut off the head of their army in one fell swoop!" The demon's visage was contorted with hatred and dark desire; his eyes glinted with a voracious thirst for human slaughter.

King Frond heard both of them, and did not speak until the demon commander had finished. "That is not how we conduct war, Commander Bludyn," he said firmly. "If we ever stooped to such barbarity, we would be no better than the humans." He paused, watching as a small group of humans broke free of the front ranks and started walking through the field towards the fairy line. "We will meet them in the middle. Commanders Kendth and Screeth with me, everyone else hold positions and await our return."

N'zall seemed perturbed, as he barred his teeth and snarled with frustration. Frond was quick to give him a sharp look, one that pacified the demon in an instant. The elf then looked forward, directly at his human counterparts, and started to walk. His two commanders shadowed him on either side.

The two parties reached each other a few minutes later, in the exact center of the field of battle. Five-hundred meters separated them from both armies, and with all of the gathered warriors standing still in anticipation, the only sound that drifted through the humid air was that of the grass beneath the two parties' feet, and of their voices as they met in the no man's land. General Sargon, having stopped only a few meters—striking distance—from his counterparts, was the first to speak.

"King Erendael Frond," he said smoothly, his voice bereft of contempt and judgment. "I am glad that you decided to converse on this eve of battle."

King Frond looked up at the human, who towered over him and his commanders like a tree. The elf locked eyes with him, and betrayed no uncertainty or fear. "General Acaed Sargon. Your blood-soaked reputation precedes you."

"As does yours," the general replied, taking no offense to the elf's words—they were completely true.

"Though it is customary to meet like this on such an occasion, I hardly see the benefit," Frond continued, glancing at the two commanders at Acaed's side before looking back to him. "The time for talk has long since passed."

"Indeed it has," Sargon stated coolly. "But as much as that may be true, I still see it proper to extend what little mercy my position can allow." He studied the elven king, and then continued. "As the king of these people, you have the ability to put an end to this war right now. Both sides have had their fill of bloodshed, and more will be senseless. You can see that you are outnumbered greatly, and though you hold the high ground you cannot hope to defeat my legions. Withdraw, and relinquish these lands to the stewardship of humanity. I give you my word that my forces will not pursue you."

There was a long silence as Frond regarded the general, his eyes glinting with thought. However, there was no real dilemma in his mind, for his decision was immovable, just like the determination of his warriors to retain what little freedom they had left. After a few moments he shook his head, ever so slightly, and spoke with a calm, confident tone.

"I cannot make that decision, General. You know full well what it is like to be pushed to the brink of destruction. Now that our positions have been reversed, I find that we cannot go any further backwards. I am sure you understand me when I say that no one, not a single soul under my command, desires to forfeit their land and homes, for in doing so we forfeit our identity and dignity. The People, just like your kind, desires to flourish, and if that must come at the price of battle, then so be it." He paused, gesturing behind him. "We have come here with the resolve to put an end to this war, indeed, but it will not be on your terms. That will be decided in battle."

Sargon regarded the elf thoughtfully, his eyes ever filled with calculation.

"What you say is noble, perhaps, but there is a fine line between that and being foolish. Surely you have witnessed enough lives being sacrificed in the name of honor and ideals, neither of which is truly worth the price of blood. It is futile…" The man paused, studying his counterpart for a few seconds, and finding no difference in his outward resolve. "I will give you one more chance to consider my offer. You can still save yourselves, and lives are worth more than land."

Frond did not seem to consider it at all; he would have if it was at all a prospect. He shook his head, and spoke firmly. "Your people will only hunt us down. Not even you can control the darker proclivities of humanity, and once you lose your position as general your alliance will break apart and each faction will do whatever they please. There is no reason to believe that you will leave us be in the long run."

"Then you are adamant about this, aren't you?"

Frond nodded. "We all are. This is our only chance."

Sargon nodded in return, understanding in his eyes. "Then so be it. From one old warrior to another, I respect your decision."

"You are far more tactful than most men," Frond said honestly. "It is a shame that we must fight. But such is war."

"Aye," Sargon said.

The elven king glanced at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "Well, it seems that we have wasted each other's time meeting like this. Time is so fleeting as it is."

"I beg to differ," Acaed said, also noting the sun's position. "At the very least, I have been given the opportunity of seeing you face to face, my worthy enemy. I have been given the privilege of understanding the resolve that keeps you and your people going even against such odds. I admire such strength. I will remember it long after this battle is over."

With the battle looming closer than ever, Frond managed to smile a little. "And if we should be victorious, I will remember yours."

The human general nodded, and then glanced back to his army, which was waiting silently. "It is time," he said smoothly, his voice suddenly hard and bereft of feeling. "We will begin hostilities once you return to your kin." He gave a final nod to King Frond, and then proceeded back towards his army. The elven king did the same after a moment of thought.

With the two leaders parting ways and returning to their respective armies, the air became dense with tension. The last opportunity for negotiation was gone, leaving conflict as the only option. Everyone felt its certainty now, and that realization sent a ripple of anxiety through the fairy ranks. Soldiers did what they always did on the very cusp of combat. Some made a final prayer, beseeching the gods for their righteous guidance. Many fidgeted with their armor, making certain that straps and latches were firmly set and that nothing would come loose during the battle. Others simply shifted uneasily, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination as they beheld the enemy that loomed before them.

Aldreda Hollen did none of these things. She stood at the forefront of her division with absolute stoicism, her figure as still as a statue. The elves behind her found encouragement in her immovable presence, her strength imparting confidence in those who did not feel strong enough to stand on their own. Yet despite this outward fortitude, Aldreda felt the same as them. To feel otherwise would mean that she was either insane or ridiculously naïve, of which she was neither. She watched with cold, determined eyes as King Frond returned to the front rank. Every fiber of her being was itching to move, to do something, anything, but she knew the plan, and for the moment there would be no release.

When the elven king was back in his position in the center of the line, he turned about to face the humans again, this time making a gesture to his signals officer. A signal flag was waved, and the message was relayed throughout the army. Aldreda eyed the signal and felt no surprise. It was a command to remain in their current positions. She frowned a little, feeling the itch of sweat running down her back. For her, battle was all about rapid movement and sudden changes, not standing around in waiting. But she did not question Frond's judgment, not during such a fundamental moment. Besides, there was a prudence to it anyway, and given the overwhelming number of their enemy, acting rashly was the last thing they should do. No, Aldreda knew the plan, and so she suppressed her proclivities and waited patiently. Before her stretched the human legions, and they too were completely still. That would not last long, she was sure of it.

* * *

General Acaed Sargon stood upon the small hill where his banner was planted, his calculating gaze fixed on his enemy. He was not surprised when Frond's forces remained stationary. They had the high ground, and were outnumbered greatly, making aggressive action highly perilous. The fairies would remain on the defensive for the time being.

"It appears they want us to make the first move," Sargon stated, his eyes bereft of emotion. He studied the enemy force for a few seconds, and then the ground between them. Then he nodded, ever so slightly, as if the fate of the entire battle had just been decided. With his visage ever cast in coldness, and his eyes never leaving the enemy force, the general spoke to his signals officer, who had been waiting eagerly for his word.

"First echelon, advance."

Flags waved, drums rolled, and officers barked. The deafening silence that had fallen over the battlefield was suddenly obliterated by the rumble of many footsteps, and the stillness departed as the entire front section of the human army—ten divisions numbering at a total of ten-thousand men—surged forward in a steady march. Dust soon swirled into the air, and the earth shook ominously, both harbingers of the massive force that was heading straight towards the fairy line. Acaed watched them advance, and then turned his gaze back to the fairy line, where King Frond stood. The elf's gold filigreed armor shone in a deific manner, startling even at a distance.

"Your move, Frond," the man said coldly. "Prove to me that you are worthy to lead your people."

* * *

King Frond watched as the first ten divisions of the human army surged forward. It was a frightening sight, he could not deny that. Ten thousand men, clad in armor and bearing weapons and ill intent, advanced towards them like a wave—a deluge of steel and muscle—and that was only the first contingent of an army fifteen times that size. Even still, Frond did not waver; the ironlike nature of his countenance could not be worn away by fear, not when there were emotions far stronger that kept his courage glowing within him. The elf eyed the army before him, noting its speed and direction, and concluded that it aligned with his strategy quite nicely. His commanders were all waiting on his orders, and despite the fact that they knew the plan, they itched to get moving. They would have to wait a little longer. Patience was as vital as strength in times like this.

An intense minute passed, every second marked by an increase in the volume of the human advance. The rumbling grew and grew, and the sound of clanking armor and weapons filled the air with a steady rise whose crescendo was the clash of armies. The human divisions were halfway to the fairy line, having reached the base of the hill and begun walking up its incline. This slowed them down considerably, but they did not seem to be in any rush—they knew better than to waste their energy charging such a distance.

Frond did nothing for another minute. Everyone waited anxiously, but remained still as the human army came within a hundred meters of them. It was then that the human commanders announced the charge, and with a terrifying collective roar the force of ten-thousand men broke into a run, their footfalls shaking the earth and the courage of the fairies before them. But Frond was unaffected, as were his commanders. They saw the incoming army, and felt no worry or trepidation. The King would not let the humans actually reach their line, not by a longshot.

With less than thirty seconds before the enemy reached them, King Frond finally made his move. With a slight motion—a near imperceptible gesture—he summoned Dmitar Grundin, the commander of the dwarfs, who had been standing a few meters behind him since the beginning of the human advance.

"Commander Grundin," Frond said calmly, his eyes on the approaching humans. "You may begin."

The grizzled dwarf nodded resolutely, and subsequently dove into the earth. His entire engineer regiment—some eight-hundred dwarfs—was waiting on his word, and they were about to get it. A few seconds passed, and in that time Frond could see the whites of the humans' eyes—he could see the hate, anger, and fear glinting within them like metallic dust in the sunlight, a window into the hearts of the warriors that sought to cut him down. It made him smile sadly, for he knew that all of them, regardless of their convictions and their arguably rightful hatred for the People, were as good as dead.

"So the first blow is ours to make…"

It happened with a suddenness that seemed impossible, but its reality was immediate for the thousands of charging men. There was a great cacophony in the air, one that drowned out the shouts and footfalls of the humans, and it was followed by a trembling of the earth that shook everyone for a brief, terrifying moment. Then, without any apparent resistance, the ground beneath the human divisions gave way completely, crumbling into a deep pit that sliced across the field of battle for over a kilometer. Two-thirds of the human force was instantly swallowed by the trap, and the air became filled with dust in an instant, blinding the rest. For those who had not fallen in, the dust blinded them to the danger, and their forward momentum combined with the collective weight of their comrades behind them, pushed them right into the pit as well. The cries of anger and courage soon became ones of horror and agony as hundreds of men fell to their deaths, and thousands more broke limbs as they fell atop their comrades. It was a decisive, crippling blow, and in thirty seconds only a few thousand of the attacking humans remained aboveground, while the rest—many wounded or dead—languished in the pit.

King Frond didn't even blink as this happened, and upon its completion he only gestured to his signals officer. A flag was waved, and then action was taken. All at once the sprites who had been waiting in the rear ranks took to the air, wielding bows and spears to strike at their trapped enemies, and half of the goblin division surged forward, fireballs sizzling to life on their hands. What followed was absolute carnage.

With the cloud of dust obscuring everything, the remaining humans did not see the attack until it was upon them. Sprites burst through the gloom, lobbing spears and firing arrows as they flew over their enemy, while receiving only sparse retaliation from the humans' disoriented archers. At the same time the goblins unleashed a fusillade of fireballs into the pit, raining the glowing orbs down upon the struggled survivors without mercy. It was a hellish scene, and it soon became sickening, but it kept progressing until Frond signaled for the attack to stop. When he finally did—after three minutes of dishing out hell—the screams had died out, and the dust in the air was replaced by a black smoke that smelt of charred flesh. The sprites and goblins, having sustained virtually no casualties, returned to the fairy line, and Frond took in the sight of the carnage. The pit before him glowed like Hades, belching out smoke and filling the air with its stench. The smoke spread across the field between the two armies, blocking their views, just as Frond had anticipated. He did not dwell on what he had done, even though his stomach churned at the stench that filled the air and his senses withered in the face of senseless brutality. Instead he continued with his duty, this time with a nod to the commanders on his left and right flanks.

Aldreda was one of these commanders, standing with her elves on the right. She had observed the battle without any perceptible emotion, even while some of those behind her vomited—some fairies could never get over the scent of death, no matter how much they experienced. She was stone cold, an image of imperturbability, and upon the deaths of nearly ten-thousand men she said not a word. There was no elation in the small victory, not for her, an elf who had long since stopped feeling such things. She was a weapon of war, her past drenched in so much blood that the excitement of victory did not occur to her. Maybe fifty years ago, when she was younger, but not now. Now she kept a clear head, so that perhaps she could survive one last battle.

When Aldreda received the order from Frond, she did not hesitate for a second. With a call to her soldiers she signaled the advance, and then ventured forth into the obscured battlefield; into the swirling haze that reeked of death. In moments her entire division of light infantry was on the move, dashing quickly thanks to their light gear, and with speed as their ally they moved further to the side of the armies. At the same time a detachment from the gnome division was doing the same on the left flank, and a company of centaurs was seeking out what remained of the humans' first echelon. The smoke obscured all of this, making their movements invisible to the human commanders. The smoke would not last for long, not if a wind came, so they moved swiftly to their positions.

Aldreda took her elves to the far right side of the battlefield, where the grass was long and a number of trees had grown to form a small forest. Once there she had her forces hunker down, becoming undetectable in the foliage. There she waited, whilst the smoke churned in the air and the scent of death assaulted her nostrils. Then, a moment later, the wind came.

* * *

The wind was intermittent, and only lasted for a few minutes, but it was enough to push the obscuring smoke from the field, and leave only a grey haze between the two armies; an ephemeral mist that hung in the air like the spirits of the thousands who had just perished. Upon this clearing the wind ceased, quite oddly, leaving everyone in the sultry heat once more.

Upon the small hill near the forefront of the human army, General Sargon took in the sight before him. He no longer saw the first echelon, nor enough bodies to comprise it. Instead he saw a smoldering pit, and a killing field where fairy cavalry and sprites had mowed down the survivors. It was an appalling sight, but he felt nothing at all—he would feel it later, but not now, when he was in the mindset of war. Even still, he was surprised by Frond's brutality, and that shed light onto the inner turmoil that the elven king was going through. It made evident the People's desperation, and because of that, it made evident their danger. An animal, no matter how small, became a beast when backed into a corner. This was important information, and apart from that the carnage had another purpose. The advance of the first echelon had never been meant to rival the fairy army, even though its numbers matched them. It was merely a probing attack, a first toss of the dice to reveal the other player's hand. Frond had not failed to show to extent of his power, and had begun the laying of his grand strategy. Sargon saw it, and knew what the old elf was thinking. Now he knew how to proceed.

Nevertheless, even though the first attack had given Sargon valuable information, it was a blow to his army's morale. Upon seeing the complete ruin of their divisions, a ripple of uncertainty went through the human ranks, and the air became dense with fear. But none of the warriors gathered believed in running away, not when cowardice would only give the fairies even more room to continue their ways. No, fear would not have its way this day. Far stronger than it was anger and hatred, coupled with a thirst for violence. Indeed, they wanted blood, and now that they had witnessed the massacre of their brothers, they wanted it so much more. Sargon knew this, and in fact had anticipated it. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices, and feel it in the air. It was a mass darkness welling up within the hearts of men, and it would dull their perception of fear and pain all the more. It would make them terrifying warriors.

Looking across the battlefield, with his commanders waiting on his orders, the general studied the fairy ranks. His brow furrowed, and the undulations of his countenance were accentuated by the sun directly above. He could still see Frond, as dazzling as ever in his filigreed armor, and the proportions of the enemy ranks seemed the same at first. But Sargon had a good eye, and he saw that the fairy divisions had loosened their ranks a little to appear the same in size from his viewpoint. In reality there were a few thousand fairies missing, from the flanks of the army, and that meant that they had moved under the cover of the smoke. It came as no surprise to Sargon, and in fact it coincided with his perception of Frond's plan. Indeed, it was quite predictable. What should he do in response? That was also simple. He would continue as before, and play along with the elf's strategy until the right moment. After all, deception was the art of war. _Let them strike, let them win. Make them believe that they can have victory, and then, like closing a tunnel behind a grave robber whose success seemed all but assured, cut off their hope completely._

He would continue to observe Frond's forces and their actions, for one could infer their enemy's weaknesses from observing their strengths; their surpluses from observing their deficiencies. And from there strategy would change, for indeed there was no invariable strategy in war that could be relied upon at all times. There was no constant victor, not at all; of the four seasons, none holds a constant position, the days are short and long, and the moon waxes and wanes.

Upon the completion of his thoughts, General Acaed Sargon kept his eyes on the enemy, and spoke in a calm, charismatic voice. "We shall avenge our brothers, and sate their fallen spirits with the blood of our enemies. Proceed as planned."

His commanders nodded resolutely, and upon their orders a ripple of activity swept through the front third of the army. Drums rolled, banners waved, and shouts rose. With these sounds as their harbinger, five full echelons surged forward, fifty-thousand strong. Other smaller groups, which were over the hills a distance from the battlefield, heard the signals and began as well. Sargon observed calmly, and with perfect accuracy his eyes fell upon the forests to his left, where the foliage was thick and obscuring. His army would have to march around the pits, therefore close to the woodlands on either side of the battlefield. It was far too obvious. Without any perceptible worry, the man turned to his signals officer, and told him to relay a message to his eleventh battalion.

"Burn them all."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**There will be much more action and faster pacing in the coming chapters. I will be updating this story whenever I have ample time, so it may not be as regular as my previous ones. I will finish it, I promise! Thanks for reading!**


	3. Joining the Fray

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

Fear, truly the most primordial of emotions, the original sentiment of all creatures and the force that drives all to strive for survival, either by fight or flight. Through fear comes desperate action and perhaps courage, and by its terror sentient beings managed to claw their way from the brink of annihilation and master the world that sought to envelope them as prey. Though necessity may be the mother of invention, fear too is not bereft of clever suggestions, and in many cases, the latter brings forth the torch that lights the treacherous path to survival. For some, like human beings and fairies, fear played a key role in their evolution, motivating them to take the necessary steps to dominance. In time they became superior to the creatures they shared the planet with, their intellect trumping strength and speed, and eventually they experienced the novelty of not having to live in fear—they attained certitude in a world filled with chaos. But no matter how evolved they became, and no matter how assured their existence seemed to be, they could never escape the primal, fundamental forces that got them there. They could not escape fear.

Rational beings can possibly destroy everything within themselves—love, hate, and belief, even doubt—but as long as they cling to life they cannot destroy fear. It remains within, subtle, indestructible, and horrific, pervading their being and casting its shadow over their lives. It tinges their thoughts, lurks in their hearts, and watches them to their final moments. In battle this truth is exemplified in the hearts and minds of every bearer of the sword, the fierce struggle for survival unleashing the primitive brutality and darkness that resides within all beings; the inner creature that, though left behind by advancement and knowledge, still finds its way into the present, making known its power and its madness. On the hill of Taillte, and in the fields below, this darkness rose above all, imperceptible to the eyes, but blatant to the souls, of those who fought there. And evil, the harsh uncle of fear, was there too. It flew over the battlefield, clapping its black wings whilst it sailed rejoicing in the flood of death. Truly, only the fiends of hell could rejoice on a day like this; a day when fear and madness drove the peoples together in an appalling struggle.

Aldreda sat perfectly still in the thick foliage, surrounded by her comrades and shadowed by these primal emotions. Her countenance, firm and unfeeling, hid the very same darkness that resided within her, and veiled the fear that was nearly imperceptible save for the faint lines on her face and the slight glint in her hazel eyes. Sweat streaked down her face, and her auburn hair stuck to it as a result. She brushed it aside absentmindedly, not even blinking as perspiration went in her eyes or as the sound of battle roared from ahead of her. She watched attentively, with her wits about her, as the skirmish continued, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The human army was on the move, fifty-thousand of its warriors advancing while the rest readied themselves to provide support. With the massive chasm dominating the center of the battlefield, the humans were forced to split in the middle, branching off evenly in both directions in order to circumvent the obstacle. Frond's forces had repositioned themselves to face the incoming hordes, strengthening their flanks and tightening their ranks, but the king—along with the majority of his heavy infantry—remained in the center, looking across the chasm towards Sargon's army. Qwan and his warlocks were with him too, but they did not act. The warlocks were a decisive tool, but it was not the king's plan to commit them so early. They would be used at the right moment, in a crippling blow that would hopefully rout the entire human army at once. Until then, they stood by Frond, watching as their kind fought against insurmountable odds.

For Aldreda, it was a little unsettling, but she knew their strategy, and respected Frond's judgment. With her elves she waited, even as the human legions started to proceed past their position. They did not seem to notice them, not from afar, but she could tell by intuition that Sargon was wary of the forest they hid in. Though the humans were marching forward, they had repositioned a lot of their heavy infantry to their flanks, where a strike from the woods would come, and beneath the deceiving exterior ranks of their army Aldreda could see that they were indeed expecting an attack from the side. It would have been disastrous, had she not expected this. Believe it or not, this was part of the plan.

A minute passed, and that was when she started to smell smoke in the sultry air—not the scent of burning flesh that still hung around them, but rather the smell of burning wood and smoldering grass. It came from behind them, on the nearly nonexistent breeze. It would seem that smaller parties of human infantry had been concealed to the east and west, and under the cover of smoke and the enormous din made by the others, they had closed in on the opposite side of the forest, out of sight and earshot. With flaming arrows and lit torches they began a conflagration, and from there the summer dryness did the rest. Aldreda could see it, through the grass and trees, and it was getting closer by the second. Sargon, having anticipated their position, was intent on forcing them out of their hiding place and into the waiting spears of his divisions.

Aldreda frowned a little, but she was not fearful of the flames. They had come prepared, and with the intention of making their presence another act of deception. She gave a wordless signal to those behind her, and it was passed throughout her forces until everyone was aware. Each elf immediately produced a thin, dark sheet of fabric, and without any fear of the flame and smoke, draped it over themselves as if it would protect them. In fact it would, because these cloaks were made out of a unique material that gave them fire-resistant qualities. Furthermore, they were enchanted by a rather simple spell that made it so that the harmful smoke and heat from the fires would not harm the elves beneath them. With these protective cloaks covering them entirely, the elves remained perfectly still as the fire engulfed the forest around them. The snaps and roars of the conflagration could be heard, and even though its effects were unfelt, it was a fearful thing to be surrounded by such dreadful hellfire. Aldreda said nothing as this happened, nor did she doubt. She kept her mind on what was to come very soon.

She could see through the thin material of her protective cloak, and despite the fire and smoke she had a glimpse of the battlefield beyond. The human divisions were still on the move, and their attention on the forests was beginning to waver. Upon seeing it go up in flames, and having no fairies flee out of it, the human commanders were starting to think that the missing fairy divisions had positioned themselves elsewhere—perhaps behind the hills, or very far to the flanks, but surely not within the hellish wildfire. The same was happening on the other side, where the gnomes were doing the same thing. It sent a ripple of uncertainty through the humans who were waiting for the attack, and it soon became doubt. That sliver of doubt was decisive.

With the humans believing that an attack from the sides was unlikely, and the commanders becoming wary of other possibilities, the advancing human army lost focus on the flanks and looked ahead to the front where Frond waited. Their advance quickened, and that was when Frond ordered his cavalry to charge. On both sides of the battlefield, the centaurs broke into a dash towards the humans, and above them flew swift groups of sprites for support. They were sure to shout loudly and make as much noise as possible. The result was exactly what Frond had been hoping for.

The sudden charge, and the startling racket that came with it, took the humans by surprise, and captured their attention completely. In anticipation of the attack, the human infantry rushed to the front, raising shields and leveling spears, and all those on the sides who had been waiting for a flanking attack abandoned their positions and surged forward to support the front line. The humans did this out of sudden shock and desperation, not thinking clearly, and the human commanders could not control their men's sudden instincts. It was a swift, complete change in the organization of the human army, and it left their left and right flanks completely exposed. Only fifty meters were between them and the burning forest where over two-thousand elves were waiting.

Aldreda took this all in without a word, and upon noting the time that was left before the centaurs made contact, she exhaled slowly. Her body relaxed, and then tensed up like a bowstring gone taut. With a loud yell, so powerful that it could be heard clearly over the roaring fire, the elven commander gave her troops the command they had been waiting for.

"Charge!"

Everyone was on their feet in an instant, still keeping their protective cloaks over their heads. With deep breaths and determined glares, the elven infantry charged out of the fire, like demons out of hell, casting their smoldering cloaks aside whilst they set a furious pace. Their weapons glinted in the firelight, as did their fierce eyes, and their charge was heralded by a whirlwind of glowing embers and death-black smoke. Aldreda was the first to move, and the first to emerge into the open field; she drew one of her swords at that moment, the ring of metal drowned out by the bedlam of destruction. As the elves left the chaos of the wildfire and entered the madness of the battlefield, they used their magic to shield themselves from the eyes of their enemy. And so it was, with absolutely no visible sign whatsoever, that the elven light infantry burst onto the field of battle, a wall of smoke and flame at their backs.

Aldreda led them without a shred of uncertainty, her hazel eyes wide and locked on the enemy before her. They had to move fast, because the _shield_ used a lot of magic the longer they remained so, and they needed as much as they could retain for healing their wounds during battle. No one said a word as they rapidly advanced, and what little noise was made by their muffled footfalls and shifting gear was drowned out by the sound of Frond's charging cavalry. With only fifty meters between them and the humans, the elves lived up to their motto, moving with astonishing swiftness that had them upon the humans in seconds. And with the heat of the fire and the summer air itself making the air shimmer naturally, not a single one of the humans noticed the unnatural shimmer of the host of shielded fairies. The grass beneath their feet, distorted by the haze that still hung over the landscape, gave no indication of them either.

Only a few seconds were taken to reach the human flank, but for Aldreda it felt like a lot longer. She could hear the sound of her breathing, feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest, and smell the scent of sweat, fire, and death in the air. It was a surreal moment as she moved through the haze towards the multitude of unaware humans, the feeling of forward motion and steady footfalls distant to her as she mentally prepared herself for the impact. Her sword, sleek and deadly, was held before her in her strong hands, and during that final moment before the commencement of total war, it became an extension of herself; a tool of killing and maiming that was as much a part of her as her eyes. Then, with a deep breath and a determined cry, Aldreda launched herself into the fray, the dreamlike oddness and distorted perception of time coming crashing down along with her sword. Thousands of elves did so along with her, and with a terrifying suddenness they unshielded—ten feet from the humans—and with their frightful momentum, hammered into the startled and utterly unprepared men.

It was an appalling moment of violence and noise, one that filled the air with shouts and screams and clashes of metal. The elves completely obliterated the foremost section of the enemy flank before they could gather themselves, and the sheer force and suddenness of the decisive strike sent a wave of astonishment and confusion through the human army. This, coupled with the charge of the centaurs, utterly ruined the cohesion and preparedness of the human force to properly meet the attack, and it was far too late to mend the damage. Only fifteen seconds after Aldreda's elves—and the gnomes on the opposite side—hit the humans, Frond's cavalry and sprites slammed into the disorganized front ranks. The results were absolutely horrendous, but they were, as a dark consequence, every tactician's dream.

The centaur cavalry pierced through the wavering shield wall as if it were made of paper, shattering the front ranks of the human force and slicing deep into their formations, all while maintaining their astonishing speed. With spears and lances they lashed out, and with heavy armor and shields they deflected retaliation; in moments the entire forward third of the human echelon became a brutal battlefield of men and centaurs slaughtering each other. But before the human infantry could use their superior numbers of take down the cavalry, the sprites came from above in the hundreds, raining spears, javelins, and arrows down upon them; dwarfs assisted them, creating deep holes at random throughout the human ranks. Mass confusion followed, and the centaurs took advantage of it, retreating from the entangling melee and then coming about for another charge. This time the humans wavered upon seeing the impending wall of trampling hooves and glinting steel, and in seconds the front ranks all but collapsed. Thousands of humans fell back to try and reform a line, but the chaos behind them—the elves and gnomes that had decisively split their forces—kept them from accomplishing it. Again the centaurs struck, and again there was carnage.

It was no less bloody where Aldreda was fighting, and in fact, it was far more horrendous. Upon colliding with the unprepared humans, the elves had used their speed and smallness to swiftly cut down many warriors while avoiding reprisal. Their sleek blades parted flesh and bone, and their short spears punched through armor with ease; death flowed like the blood from the wounds they created. The earth was soon littered with corpses, and the grass's emerald green became a sickly vermillion, stained with blood and gore. The scent of this carnage was sharp and sickening, hanging in the air along with the smell of sweat, smoke, and fear. It was sickening, and the noise—horrendous, maddening noise!—further assaulted the senses and unhinged the mind. It was impossible for words to describe the horror, and Aldreda, despite there being goodness in her heart, traversed this madness like an angel of death.

The elven commander was swift and merciless, her blade moving with continuous violent purpose, its motions nothing but blurs and glints to the eye. Its impact, however, was anything but a fleeting glimpse. The first human she encountered was a young man, and when he saw her charging at him he raised his sword in desperation—fear and surprise glinted in his eyes. Aldreda didn't even blink as she avoided his blade and jabbed hers through his chest, killing him instantly. Withdrawing her sword from the man as he fell, she went on to the next opponent, of which there were many. One swung at her with a heavy axe, seeking to part her from head to toe like a log, but she sidestepped it with ease and followed through with a slash across his throat that left him bleeding out on the ground. Another human shot an arrow at her, but her sharp eyes saw it coming and, without any perceptible concern, she swatted the arrow aside with her sword. Then she drew a dagger and flung it into the archer, while at the same time anticipating attacks from several other men. She dodged and parried, jumped and rolled, and with just as much speed lashed out with her weapon, killing everyone who dared to confront her. Blood was everywhere, in the air and on the ground, as the two armies killed each other with brutal determination. Soon Aldreda's sword was coated with it, and upon her face it spattered and splashed, always fresh from a man she had killed or from one of her comrades being cut down beside her. It got in her eyes and in her mouth, but she did not notice—her mind, and her senses, were consumed by the act of killing, and thereby the determined struggle for survival.

The battle was one-sided at first, with her elves decimating the unprepared humans. But as the minutes passed, the human commanders began to regroup, and their warriors recovered from their shock and dismay and began to counterattack with complete and total rage. The centaurs that were hammering the front line were met by renewed effort, with human spearmen using their polearms to form bristling walls of steel before the cavalry could break off, leading to casualties on both sides evenly. The sprites that harassed the enemy from above were met by fierce retaliation from archers below, who fired swift arrows from powerful bows; the flying fairies began to suffer casualties as they were struck by a fusillade of deadly projectiles. And the elves and gnomes engaging the flanks, previously unmatched by their disorganized foe, began to feel the full force of the humans' collective hatred and rage. Aldreda experienced this firsthand, as she led her elves through the brutal melee. Her enemies rallied and charged, their ranks closed and their weapons many, and those who were locked in battle were encouraged by the reinforcement. Soon the fighting fell into a mutual chaos, where fairy and human alike were being slaughtered.

Aldreda fought furiously amidst this chaos, seeing one of her comrades die nearly every moment. To her right, one of her lieutenants was cut in half by a human with a wicked axe; in front of her fell a female sprite who had been shot through the eye by an arrow; to her left cried another elf, this one stabbed through the gut by a spear; behind her, three fairies collapsed upon being relieved of their heads by a single sweep of a massive blade. It was madness, far more horrifying than any nightmare could possibly be, and yet she carried on, stepping over the dead and adding more to their number with every motion of her blade. She received many cuts and bruises, but her magic healed them instantly; the humans had no such reprieve. As for other magical uses, like the _Mesmer_, there was no time to effectively employ it in the fast-paced combat, and besides, the humans knew all too well about that trick and had means of counteracting it.

Her ears rang painfully as another clash of steel boomed beside her, but she ignored it. Moving swiftly by determination and adrenaline, the elf cut down a dozen humans in less than thirty seconds, all while rallying her troops. She had to regroup, as per the strategy, but in the astounding chaos of battle it was difficult to communicate with all of her warriors. She was about to seek out her signals officer—who was distinguishable in his uniform—when a sudden and furious attack came at her from the side. She jumped back, and during that startling moment saw a bloodied blade scream right past her face, just barely missing her nose. Its wielder was a human officer, evidently a commander given his attire. He set upon her without pause, and it was clear that he knew her importance as well.

Aldreda backpedaled as the human swung his sword in devastating arcs. She dared not block the attacks with her sword, nor did she try to get close to him yet. Another powerful swing of the blade scraped across her chest, leaving a deep cut in her armor, and yet another passed so close to her head that it sliced some strands of her auburn hair. She ducked under the next one, and sought to rapidly advance on her opponent to land a deadly blow. But the human commander moved quickly, deflecting her attack with the flat of his blade; a few sparks flew by the scraping of metal, and they winked out of existence just as quickly.

The fight continued instantly, there being no pause in their attempts to kill each other. Back and forth the two commanders went, and rarely did anyone else get in their way. At one point a fairy soldier tried to intervene, but the human commander promptly slashed his face off without even taking his eyes from Aldreda. The blood from that unfortunate elf spattered upon Aldreda's face, but her fierce countenance did not waver, not even a little. She continued to fight, her hazel eyes wide with equal measures of rage and resolve.

A minute of intense fighting passed, and by its end Aldreda was breathing heavily. Her opponent, seemingly unfazed by the combat, lashed out time and time again, always coming within mere inches of cutting the elven commander. She gritted her teeth, starting to feel impatient. She had to lead her forces, and that could not be done while she was caught up in this duel. The fighting around them had intensified, and continued to get even worse for every second that passed. Time was not on her side. Frond would act soon, and she needed to be ready.

Ducking under a mighty swing, the elf lunged at her opponent with her sword pointed purposefully. Again it was blocked, but she expected this, and let go with one of her hands to draw a dagger she had on her belt. While she held her sword with one hand, keeping the human commander distracted, she subtly drew the knife and spun around. With this move she narrowly avoided her opponent's counterattack, deflected another, and closed the distance between them. Her dagger, held firmly in her right hand, moved like lightning, and the human didn't even see it coming. Her spinning momentum carried the blade forth with tremendous force. With a sickening crunch the knife—all eight inches—embedded itself in the man's side. The blow threw off his balance and concentration, and made him stumble back. Aldreda was upon him in an instant, wielding her sword with both hands again. With a determined yell and a fierce slash, she finished him off.

Aldreda stood over her dying opponent, who lay before her gasping his final breaths. She felt nothing at all. Turning her back on him—and hearing a final gurgle escape his lips—she regarded the battlefield around her. The only thing that had changed was the number of dead on the ground. It was still chaos, for both the fairies and the humans, and that served to eliminate the latter's ability to respond to Frond's uncommitted forces. General Sargon seemed to notice this, because with yet another wave of motion and boom of drums, several more echelons of the human army began to advance up the middle field. Their reinforcement would tip the balance in the current fighting, but that was only if Frond didn't take action. And he would, Aldreda knew for certain, and he would do so in such a way that would bypass the chaos and pierce into the very heart of the human army, in hopes of creating a mass rout. The others needed to be ready, and the elven commander could already see the signal flags waving above the fighting. The centaurs and sprites were regrouping, as were the gnomes on the far side, making their actions seem like a retreat. Aldreda found her signals officer and did the same with their flags and trumpets. Soon the elven light infantry were on the retreat, moving back progressively in a manner that minimized casualties while still appearing like a panicked rout. The effect it had upon the humans was immediate and uncontrollable.

Upon seeing the fairies waver and break formation, the human echelons on both sides took heart and pursued, breaking formation and ignoring their commanders en masse in order to massacre the retreating fairies. The echelons that had been moving to reinforce the humans also experienced this boost in morale and zeal, and in minutes they were breaking formation as well, parting their solid ranks and leaving the center field completely exposed. This left an open path straight to the remaining human army, at the front of which stood their leader, General Sargon.

King Frond observed this rapid change with a calm expression, but in his eyes was fierce calculation and determined thought. When the humans in the field broke formation and split apart, he nodded slightly, and then spoke confidently to the warlocks who were standing by. Qwan was the foremost of them, and upon seeing Frond's confirming gesture he motioned to his colleagues. They silently got to work, stepping out into the open before the fairy army, facing the smoldering precipice that sliced across the land downhill. No time was wasted, but neither did they rush. Their motions and incantations were smooth and calm, a product of discipline and practice. It brought forth magic, nearly imperceptible to the eye in the shimmering air and obscuring haze, and with Qwan leading the spell there was no question as to its effectiveness. The warlocks moved as one, bringing their power to bear and making it as purposeful as the weapons of war. Together they sent it crashing into the earth at their feet, and in an instant the magic disappeared into the ground. The earth began to shake, and more smoke belched from the massive pit, and then the very hillside began to change. It happened suddenly and without pause, and its effect was masked by the sudden increase in smoke and dust in the air. Before the fairy army, in the center of the battlefield, the pit Frond had devised suddenly shifted and came apart, the soil and rock around it reforming until the pit no longer remained. What replaced it was safe, walkable earth, leaving nothing in between Frond and the exposed humans. The latter had not been able to see the change in the ground due to the smoke, and they were still pursuing the fleeing fairy regiments on the flanks. They had no idea, and it would be too late by the time they did.

Frond acted the moment the spell had done its work, giving his officers the orders they had been anticipating. Flags were waved and drums were hammered, each indicating the charge that would drive a wedge of fairy steel into the heart of the human army. Frond's entire middle force—the demons, goblins, and gnomes—surged forward, all eager to join the fight and strike down their unaware foes. At the same time, on the flanks of the battlefield, the retreating fairy divisions suddenly came to a halt, bunching up and turning around to face the disorganized humans who were pursuing them. The elves and gnomes formed up and made a bristling wall of spears, while the dwarf sappers suddenly set off a number of traps beneath the human echelons. The sprites reengaged on all fronts, and the centaurs, using the smoke and confusion to their advantage, charged into the weak formations of human infantry, slicing deep and shattering their courage. It was all such a sudden shift in circumstances, one that caught the humans completely by surprise. It left the forces on the flanks in disarray, and the reinforcing echelons were too far from the center to stop the new forces joining the fray. At that moment the fairies struck on all fronts, simultaneously, turning the tables in an instant.

The human commanders responded, but it was too late. In seconds the entire front line of the human force was in ruin, and between all of them moved Frond's main force, unchecked and ridiculously frightful in numbers and determination. Frond himself led them all, his magnificent sword drawn and held out before him in a gesture of defiance; it glowed in a deific manner, its unique alloy giving it an otherworldly appearance in the sunlight. Alongside him were his commanders, the fiercest of them being the demon, N'zall. The demon commander was absolutely terrifying, as were his heavy infantry. They formed the armored spearhead of the charge, their bloodlust making them faster and remarkably fearless. Behind them the goblins prepared fireballs, and the remaining gnomes filled the gaps. All had a purpose, and all had the same dark intent.

Qwan and his warlocks had remained still the entire time, upon the same ground they had cast the spell upon. But they were anything but idle. Magic gleamed in their eyes, and swirled around them like glittering water, brilliant and pure. With it they would begin to cast spells that would utterly devastate the human forces that challenged Frond, and in combination with the charge of all the fairy units, it was their intention to shake the humans so much that they would retreat en masse. This kind of decisive rout could only be accomplished if Qwan did what Frond had ordered him to do, and despite the violence and wickedness it entailed, he had little choice—the humans had brought this on themselves. With his eyes set on Sargon's forces, the elder warlock began to mouth the words that would bring them down. His comrades did the same, and together they began to weave the magic into an intricate and deadly purpose. The warlocks—the People's most powerful force—were joining the battle.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Yeah, this may end up being longer than anticipated. Anyway, I hope this chapter was alright, and do forgive my blatant references to Joseph Conrad and William Blake. Cheers!  
**


	4. Countermove

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

Being on the receiving end of the fairy counterattack was something that no man—no matter how insane—would want. It was horrifying, the full weight of the People's might bringing with it the full extent of the human mind's susceptibility to fear and the desire for self-preservation. The fairies fighting on the flanks had become so fierce and filled with passion that their human opponents crumbled before them. The ranks of infantry wavered and broke, splitting where the fairies concentrated their attack. This allowed for groups like Commander Aldreda's elves to break through the human lines and further sow chaos, cutting deep into the echelons that separated them from Frond's main force.

The eleven king was even more intimidating as he charged with thousands of his best soldiers behind him, his sword gleaming and his regal voice cutting through the chaos in shouts of encouragement to his kin. But even more mighty than these were the warlocks who stood behind, readying their magic for the devastating attack they had planned. Though most of the humans were too occupied with facing the impending tide of fairy soldiers, a few had their eyes on the most imminent threat, being Qwan and his mages. General Sargon was one of them, and with an unblinking gaze he observed the distant warlocks, who were nearly invisible through the haze that hung over the battlefield. The roar of Frond's charge and the resounding cacophony of battle filled the air to the point that it hurt the ears, but Sargon was unaffected. He stood calmly, his banner looming behind him and his officers gathered at the ready. Nothing seemed to faze him, not even Frond's attack which, if carried out properly, could destroy the human army once and for all. Doom personified was there before him, yet in the face of it he did not waver, nor betray a hint of uncertainty. His subordinates were the exact opposite, their fear and determination now fighting on equal footing within the chaotic confines of their battle-stricken minds. All it would take was a little more to break many of them, and when that began there would be a cascading effect through the rest, a mounting tide of cowardice that would grow exponentially until the entire human army was consumed and broken up into hordes of perfectly useless men on the run. This was any commander's greatest fear—cowardice—and Sargon did not ignore it. But neither did he consider it imminent. That all depended on what happened in the next thirty seconds.

The human general was aware of his officers around him, and many of them were begging for orders. They wanted to do something, anything, to stop the fairy advance, but they were at a loss. Instinctively, they all looked to their general, hoping that he would have a plan. His calm demeanor certainly denoted that he had something up his sleeve. And yet, as they asked him for his command, he said nothing. He kept his eyes on the distance, where his greatest enemies stood, and waited.

"It is about that time of day…" he said absentmindedly, as if noting an inconsequential moment in time.

His men looked at him in disbelief, utterly astonished that he could speak in such an unruffled manner, and their bewilderment served to silence all of them. It dawned on them then and there that Sargon alone held their fate in his hands—the fate of all of humanity, in fact. And under that incredible weight, he stood unbroken, untarnished, despite all the horror and uncertainty that was part of warfare. He seemed immovable, like a divine being, and it was a source of amazement to his officers, who never thought that such strength—such discipline of mind—could exist. They quieted down, and in spite of not having orders made sure that their troops stayed where they were. No one controlled what was about to happen, except for Acaed. It was all in his hands, life and death to be determined by the accuracy and effectiveness of his strategy.

It was a terrible thing to be burdened with, and though the general kept his outward countenance firm and unwavering, his was inwardly wary of the possible outcomes. He knew that his demise could be coming at that very moment, that he and his army could be utterly destroyed by the ferocious might of the People. But he also knew what he knew as General, right down to every last detail in his plan and every little metric of victory. Though he was indeed surprised by Frond's viciousness, he was not taken off-guard by his strategy on the battlefield. Sargon had known exactly what sort of forces the elven king had at his disposal, and he had anticipated the way in which they were currently being employed. Thus far he had given them slack, allowed them to bruise his army and increase their own morale to its apex. It may have appeared like small but decisive victories on the field of battle, but in reality it was a simple matter of bating Frond with easy successes. It was all about making him confident in his ability to win, in hopes of making him commit all of his forces into one mighty assault that went right into the heart of the human force. He had done exactly that, and though it was a proper strategy with the warlocks involved, it was still very exploitable. Sargon sought to do this, and as he stood observing the coming wave of death, he silently calculated. The seconds passed, and more and more expectation mounted. It had to be soon. It had to be! After all, he had put his faith in a rather novel idea, and thereby wagered his entire army and his own life on its success. Now he would see if his judgment had been correct, or fatally erroneous. Whichever it was, he had no control over it. Yet even still, despite all the odds that worked against him, he began to feel a sense of certainty. A slight smile worked at his lips, and his eyes glinted with deadly thoughts. It was about time.

* * *

_Gods forgive us for what we are about to do._

The thought came automatically to Qwan as he built up his magic. It did not surprise him either, given what he and his fellow warlocks were about to do out of necessity. It would be the greatest act of killing in history, and he would lead it, sick to his stomach but willing at heart. It was all he could do to keep his mind on the spell itself and not on the moral implications. The magic filled the air around him, swirling and alive, crackling with energy and flashing with a brightness that rivaled the sun overhead. It came from him and his fellow warlocks, and it pooled together before them, billions of strands of magic all being woven together to form a spell of monumental power. It was a masterpiece, albeit one whose purpose was for slaughter, and despite his disgust with it Qwan could not hold back a feeling of pride—for him and his colleagues. This was the pinnacle of spellcraft, a work of brilliance that had never been accomplished before and had been thought impossible until recently. That Qwan and his warlocks could carry it out was another commendable feat, a success of but a single fraction against many billions. The odds had been astronomically slim, and yet here it was, happening before his very eyes. It was terribly fascinating, enrapturing and yet terrifying, a sight that moved the moral heart to sorrow and the intellect to dark jubilation. Truly, if there was ever proof that the works of mortals could rival those of the gods, this was it.

Qwan sweated profusely under the strain of the spell weaving, his body aching and his mind swimming with calculations that left no room for error. All of them were completely consumed by their task, oblivious to the world around them, and thereby defenseless. But that was of no concern to them, because the humans could do nothing to get at them, not even within a hundred meters let alone striking distance. They could also take comfort in the presence of a detachment of Jarmil Kendth's elite gnomes guarding them determinedly. Surely, nothing could touch them. Nothing could stop them from bringing hell to bear upon the People's enemies. There was no hope for mankind.

"We are almost prepared," Qwan said firmly to those around him. "Set the final weaves in place, and then channel it all through me!"

The spell itself needed a number of powerful warlocks to gather the required magic, but upon its completion it could only be wielded by a single fairy. Qwan was the strongest of them all, and therefore had the responsibility—what Frond called an _honor_—to singlehandedly unleash it upon the humans. He did not relish it, not at all, but there was no going back. He had to see it through, for the sake of the People.

Only a few more seconds remained until it was ready to be channeled through him, and in anticipation he gritted his teeth and hardened his mind. Then the time came, and he called to his colleagues for their final effort. But instead of feeling their magic flow through him, he felt a sudden decrease in its presence. It was startling, for it should have been impossible, and it shattered his concentration. His eyes had been open, but inattentive to his surroundings. Now they flicked about, searching for what was wrong. He immediately saw it, and it was the sight of several of his warlocks keeling over, their strength gone and their stomachs churned up in the act of vomiting. Another joined them, and that was when Qwan, through his blurred vision and with his overburdened mind, perceived a single gnome—one of the ones tasked with guarding them—rushing across the line of warlocks, one to the next, with a small knife grasped purposefully in his left hand. None of the other gnome guards could react in time. The look on the gnome's face was one of terrible desperation, fear, and regret. Qwan knew immediately what he was doing, and it send a bolt of fear through his heart. At that moment, despite all that was riding on his actions, he took his mind off the spell and spun to meet the traitorous gnome. The gnome was surprised, having not expected Qwan to catch on, and as a result he hesitated for a second. Qwan gave him no respite, sending a blast of kinetic energy into the fairy, sending him flying a dozen meters.

At that very same moment the spell lost its integrity, one little flaw in its design—a flaw made by Qwan's sudden distraction—sending a chain-reaction through the rest. The magic went awry, its delicate weaves falling apart and its purposeful flow becoming a chaotic whirlwind of untethered energy. All hell broke loose, the magic flying in all directions in deadly fragments that tore apart anything it touched. Qwan dove for cover in an attempt to protect himself, hearing the frightful energy scream over his head. The earth around him was torn apart, and he heard cries as the magic killed some of the fairies that had been guarding them. The noise became unbearable, the destruction appalling, and then, in a surreal moment, it ceased. Magic had a way of vanishing quite abruptly.

Qwan lay on the ground, his face in the grass and his hands over his head. He looked up slowly, and carefully got to his feet, observing the destruction around him in a daze. The ground was ripped apart in places as if by a giant scythe, and the air was thick with the scent of death and the tingle of residual magic. The elder warlock saw many bodies around him, all of them being the gnome detachment tasked with protecting them. They were torn apart, a gruesome sight of behold. Blood was all over the place, painting the greens and browns of the earth a mottled vermillion. Qwan regarded this with overt horror, but he quickly realized what had happened overall, and walked quickly—though unsteadily—to where he had seen his colleagues fall. Their spell had been ruined, but perhaps they were still alive. He found the other warlocks almost immediately, all lying on the ground in various states of sickness. Two had been eviscerated by the magical calamity, but the rest were alive and utterly useless. Qwan knelt down beside the nearest of them, and saw that he had been cut on the back of his neck. It was a small cut, not even deep, but that was irrelevant. Qwan could smell a terrible stench in the air, one that made him sick to his stomach. It was the smell of animal fat.

Animal fat, as was widely known by then, was a powerful tool to use against fairies in general. This was because it acted as a magic-nullifier, having an immediate and devastating effect on any creature of significant magic. Even a little could make a fairy sick for a day, such was the incompatibility between the sickening substance and the purity that fairy magic required. And that gnome had dipped a knife in it and sliced each of the warlocks across their exposed neck, contaminating their bodies by having the substance enter their bloodstream. For all of their power, the warlocks could do nothing against such a simple force.

Qwan gritted his teeth at the sight of his friends reduced to a mass of deathly-sick victims. None of them would be fighting anytime soon, or be remotely capable of even the simplest of spells. It made him angry—so ridiculously angry—and with a curse muttered under his breath he shot up to his feet and looked back to where the traitor had been knocked. He saw him lying on the ground, perfectly alive, amidst a number of dead gnomes who had not been so lucky. The traitor seemed depressed and utterly afraid, because he cried silently and trembled as if stricken by frigid wind. He stopped when he set eyes on Qwan, who glared at him relentlessly.

"What have you done?!" the warlock growled, animosity filling his voice.

The gnome struggled to his feet, speaking in disjointed gasps. "I had no choice, I had to!"

"Like hell you did!" Qwan replied, stepping closer. He had only taken another step when a group of gnomes appeared through the haze behind the traitor. They were bloodied and disheveled, but alive, and they appeared far more angry than Qwan could ever be.

"Traitor!" one of them rasped, unsheathing a dagger. They all set upon the traitorous gnome with a viciousness that was the same if not more than a human's. Knives and swords glinted in the air before meeting their mark with sickening impacts that tore flesh and shattered bone. The gnome cried out, falling forward on his face as his legs were cut out beneath him. He could only whimper a final plea before one of the attacking gnomes rammed a dagger through his neck and out the other side of his throat. The traitor died with a gurgle of blood, and was then silent. The vengeful gnomes breathed heavily as they stood over their dead comrade, and only when the distant sounds of battle increased did they look up to see Qwan staring at them. They stared back at him, and one of them spoke firmly.

"He was a traitor, sir."

Qwan only nodded, and then turned around shakily. He suddenly felt numb, though not for what had happened to the traitor—that had been unavoidable, and was nothing compared to the situation as a whole. He could see the battlefield below him, a field of slaughter and mayhem, and dread swept through him at the same time. Frond and his main force had joined battle with a detachment of Sargon's remaining forces, and Aldreda and the others were caught up in vicious struggles in the very heart of the chaos. Smoke hung over the land, its haze making the battlefield seem even more expansive than it was, and the air shimmered with heat. Qwan felt the sun bearing down upon him, suddenly aware of his own weariness, but it meant nothing to him. The realization that they had fallen into Sargon's trap was far worse than any personal affliction. To put it bluntly, the tables had been turned in an instant, and now the People were on the edge.

* * *

From far down below, the humans were able to witness the startling outburst of magic in all of its frightful glory. At first they had been frightened, thinking that it was an attack meant to destroy them, but when the blue energy went wild and ripped apart the hillside behind the fairy line, their fears had evaporated. Sargon, who had shared in this fear as well, smiled with satisfaction. He loved witnessing the toppling of the grand creations of the People, like their spells, and even more did he enjoy the success of his eccentric plans. It had been simple, of course, relying on the well-documented use of prisoners as agents. Sargon had had many thousands of fairies in his captivity from previous battles, as well as their families in some cases. With those who had loved ones in the hands of humans, it was easy enough to appeal to their fears. Sargon himself had interrogated these fairies, one by one, seeking to bend them until they broke in a way that suited his needs. He wanted them to act out of fear and desperation, give no ear to reason, and ultimately betray their kind. It was not easy, and in fact most of them refused to break. They were tough soldiers, dedicated and fiercely loyal to Frond, but there was always a chink in armor, and thus always a defective officer in a bunch. All of them stood firm, all but one. After seven-hundred failures, all of which ended with killing the prisoners, Sargon found what he needed in a corruptible little gnome officer. The fairy had been like the others at first, strong and defiant, but that had changed when his family got involved. More specifically, Sargon had had the gnome's wife and children brought before him in chains, and made the consequences of noncooperation _painfully_ evident. Needless to say, his wife was missing a few fingers. It had been terrible work, and even though it was professional torturers who did the dirty work, the general felt no less sickened by it. What was necessary was not always right, and in many cases disgusting. War necessitated so many terrible things. In the end, at the price of his conscience, Sargon had acquired a useful agent to use against the People, more specifically against the warlocks. Seeing what he saw now told him that the gnome had indeed carried through with his orders, and had succeeded flawlessly. No doubt he was already dead, but that did not trouble Sargon at all. Death was the price of betraying one's kin.

Now, only a minute after the magical outburst, General Sargon felt the end coming near. With his plan at its current stage, and the warlocks taken out of the equation, he could press the attack and close the noose completely. Now, unlike before, he could use sheer strength to obliterate Frond's legions. Though his forward forces were being defeated, the rest would not fare the same—the ones he had sent into battle thus far had been recruits and less-experienced men, while those alongside him were his best. Now he would bring them to bear, his best veterans.

Sargon motioned to his commanders, who were eager to begin the true battle, and indicated towards the fighting. Frond and his forces had collided with Sargon's forward echelon and were wreaking havoc, but not for long. Sargon's face contorted with determination and violent intentions, his eyes suddenly losing their thoughtful glint and becoming those of a hardened killer. With a frightful voice he bellowed above all the chaos, like a god above its creations.

"Let us go to them, once and for all. All legions advance!"

Trumpets and drums filled the air with their reports, and in seconds the whole remaining army knew its orders. The humans let out a collective cheer, raising their weapons into the air before starting forwards at a fighting pace. Sargon joined them in their shouting, drawing his sword and raising it high in the sweltering air. The blade shone in the sunlight, its polished metal like a beacon to all eyes within a mile, and then it came down to point at Frond and his kin—the condemned. Then, as a hundred-thousand men surged forward behind him, General Sargon started towards the battle, leading them by example. His officers remained close behind, along with his signal carriers, and together they led the final charge into the heart of the battlefield.

* * *

The maddening noise of battle boomed around King Frond as he fought, filling his ears until they rang. His sword gleamed brilliantly as he moved it swiftly, and its edge parted the finest of human metal as if it were but paper. Blood soaked the blade, and was spattered on his royal armor, but he paid no attention to it at all. He fought ferociously, cutting down every human who came close to him. Around him fought his royal guard as well as some of his commanders. N'zall Bludyn was one of them, and he was putting up a far better display than his king. The demon commander was wielding two weapons at once, one a wicked sword and the other a heavy battleaxe, and between them he had dispatched more than a hundred humans already. He roared insanely as he fought, overwhelmed by bloodlust, and his wicked teeth were ever revealed in a constant smile—the smile of a monster given free rein to fulfill its darkest desires. Frond didn't quite approve of his methods or motivation, but he valued his ability as a fighter and commander. The demons were outperforming everybody, living up to their brutal reputation.

The fighting was intense, but the fairy's momentum and morale had shattered that of the humans, giving the former a distinct advantage. They pushed back their enemy, leaving the ground littered with their corpses, and with every meter of earth they took—bloodstained and reeking of death—they left the humans with less space to rally for a counterattack. It appeared, for a few minutes, that Frond's gamble was paying off—and it most certainly would when Qwan and his warlocks unleashed their power. However, the latter never occurred, at least not in the way that was expected. The magic was unleashed, but in a chaotic blast that destroyed the hillside above and nothing else. At that moment Frond's confidence wavered, the realization that Qwan's spell had collapsed filling him with dread. He looked back up the hill, but could see nothing through the haze of destruction. Then, in the opposite direction, the sound of trumpets and drums rolled like thunder, followed by the a deafening roar of tens of thousands of impassioned men. Frond looked towards the human army, and saw them surge forward. There were so many of them, and they looked far better equipped than the ones who were currently fighting.

Being in the heat of battle, Frond could not take in the sight for long. He needed to, however, and so with a determined growl he cut down his nearest opponents and stepped back from the melee, letting his elite guards hold the humans back while he rushed up onto a grassy knoll amidst the battlefield. From there he could see the full extent of Sargon's army, all of it now moving to engage the entangled fairies. Some of the human divisions were branching off to go around them completely, but most were heading straight for the battle. Frond frowned, blinking involuntarily as blood dripping down his face. A glance to his left and then to his right added to his unease, for what he saw was a ring of fire. The forests that had been ignited were now fully ablaze. The conflagration had spread until it nearly surrounded the hill of Taillte, all the way to its rear where only a small gap left an opening between the towering flames and suffocating smoke. And behind those fires, Frond knew that more humans were waiting. It was a textbook encirclement strategy.

_So we have been fooled into committing all of our warriors, while the enemy has yet to bring their full strength to bear… _Frond gritted his teeth, but he did not feel any urge to run. He knew that such was pointless at the moment, with everyone caught in a brutal struggle to survive. They had no choice but to fight, for their very lives and for the fate of the People as a whole. Standing on the rise, he shouted out a call to his troops, rallying them and igniting their passion. He had his officers signal to the farther units to regroup and attack with renewed ferocity, and made sure that every advantage they had was brought to bear. They may have lost their warlocks, but they were still a proud people, full of courage and strength. Frond was determined to show the humans that they were not going to win so easily. The battle was far from over.

The elven king rejoined the fray, leader a charge that cut into the human forces like a hot knife through butter. The same sort of assault was repeated all over the battlefield, and it made the tiring humans waver to the point of breaking. But with Sargon and his main force approaching, the humans held on and took heart, doing everything in their power to hold the fairies back. Then, with a chorus of shouts and the rumbling of many footfalls, the rest of the human army joined the fray, flowing like a sea of metal and flesh into the battlefield and filling the gaps that had been forming in the human lines. They brought with them better weapons and tools, all of which had been kept hidden from Frond until he was forced into the battle.

At Sargon's command the humans brought out new tactics. Each of his veterans had their weapons smeared with animal fat, all along the edges of the blades so that even a scratch could make a fairy sick. They dipped the tips of their arrows in the nullifying substance as well, and thereby rained down a barrage of deadly projectiles that could easily incapacitate a fairy with nothing more than a scratch.

When Frond's dwarf engineers tried to impede them with traps and pits, they responded by bringing up vats of molten brass and copper via pole bearers, having kept it liquid with fires at the rear of the army. Sargon and his officers knew that Frond had had his engineers dig an extensive tunnel network beneath the battlefield, arrayed with traps and filled with dwarfs to harass the humans. When the dwarfs used the traps against the new groups of humans, they were far less effective. Sargon's men sought out each hole and trapdoor with startling ease, and as each was revealed, the scalding fluid was poured in liberally. It rushed through the immediate tunnels, burning many dwarfs alive, and even when it slowed down upon cooling it gave off poisonous fumes and blinding smoke, which proceeded through the tunnels with dreadful rapidity. It forced many of the dwarfs to flee, and others, trapped by the attack, were forced to surface amidst the human ranks, where they were slaughtered without mercy.

Had Sargon employed these methods earlier, Frond would have been more cautious, and likely would not have fallen into his trap. Now that he had, he could use every trick he had devised. Upon this sudden change in circumstances, the human echelons that were already engaged in battle became determined once more, their fear and uncertainty vanished now that Sargon and his best men had joined the fray. They fought with renewed effort, keeping the fairies locked in a brutal melee while Sargon's forces either joined or moved to surround the battle.

* * *

The clash of steel, sharp and ringing in the ears, was accompanied by the maddening cacophony of screams and snarls as human and fairy sought to kill each other by any means necessary. Smoke swirled in the air, along with the stench of death, and blood drenched everything, as if a downpour of the coagulating fluid had come from the clear sky above. The dead and dying were everywhere, lying on the ground in poses of death, all with wide eyes and gaping mouths, horrors to those who still lived amidst the hell of the battle. Aldreda nearly tripped over the bodies because there were so many, but she was too focused and skilled to let the dead get her killed—there were enough living beings trying to do that already.

The elven commander looked like a demon out of hell, for she was covered in blood and gore and bore a frightful expression on her face, and in her hazel eyes glinted fierce hatred and illimitable determination. Her armor was marred by many scratches and punctures, and her cloak was in tatters, but appearances were inconsequential now. Her auburn hair was tangled and soaked with sweat and blood, and it stuck to her face persistently. Her whole body ached from exertion, but it kept going, fighting and killing, fueled by adrenaline and a boundless power of will. In her hands gleamed her sword, caked with blood in varying states of drying, and despite its excessive use its edge was still perfect. With swiftness as her ally, the elf swung and stabbed, slashed and cut, leaving many dead in her wake. Nothing seemed to be able to stop her, and her strength inspired the elves around her to the point that they followed her without question, content to remain by her side until victory or death.

Yet even still, while she led her troops, she was in complete and utter anguish. The horrors around her cracked her sanity, and the sudden collapse of Frond's plan filled her with raw terror. The humans were fighting back now with everything they had, and they outnumbered the fairies by many thousands. Aldreda had been certain that Frond's plan would work, but now, by what she suspected to be a work of betrayal, the warlocks' spell had been ruined and thereby left Frond's army to contend with the full extent of Sargon's legions. It sent a shiver up her spine, a tingle of fear, but she had little time to dwell on it.

The elven commander was determined to keep the flank open for her colleagues, and to eventually assist Frond directly. In order to do this she led a charge into the regrouping humans, not giving them a chance to regain their footing. And so the process continued. She threw a short spear into the nearest human, right through the eye socket, and then slashed another in the legs with her sword, rending them below the knees. Another attacked her, jabbing with a spear. She sidestepped and grabbed the weapon, pulling it and its bearer close and then ramming her sword home. Yet another swung an axe at her head, and as she ducked it the weapon went on to obliterate the face of one of her comrades. She lashed out quickly, killing the human warrior, and once more carried on. It was insane, pure madness, and it never ended.

After progressing fifty feet—and killing thirty men—Aldreda began to encounter Sargon's elite. They appeared through the smoke and chaos in impressive order, ranks tight and weapons gleaming. Before she could mount an attack, the elite human reinforcements joined the fray. It began with a barrage of arrows, one that was so dense that it cut down every sprite in the air around them and then rained upon the elves like a torrential downpour. Without shields, there was little they could do but spread out and try to find cover. Many fairies grabbed discarded human shields and used them for protection, while others could do nothing at all. Aldreda beheld the fusillade of projectiles, grabbed a shield from a dead combatant, and prayed to the gods that it would be enough. The arrows came down by the hundreds, hammering into the fairies in waves. Many were cut down, riddled with the swift shafts, but far more found refuge under shields and waited it out. The arrows punched into the barriers, some bouncing off while others penetrated a few inches out the other side. More than a few arrowheads stopped an inch from Aldreda's face, and she could immediately smell the stench of animal fat waft from their metal tips. It made her gag, but that was all—none had actually touched her.

With a loud shout she ordered her troops to pull back. She did this because of the bristling shieldwall that the humans had made in front of her. It would be suicidal to attack it head on with light infantry. Instead she regrouped and signaled to Commander Cillian Tryndiran, who was leading his centaurs not too far away. At the same time she had a group of dwarf engineers proceed beneath the human line. When Cillian's cavalry emerged through the smoke from behind Aldreda's elves, the dwarfs undermined the earth beneath the human shield bearers' feet, making them stumble. This broke the cohesion of the shield wall, and allowed for the centaur cavalry to slam into it without taking too many casualties. The results were perfect, and once the initial impact was over, Aldreda sounded the charge and led her troops back into the fray.

The charge was powerful, and even though these humans were more experienced and better-equipped, the elves still did some damage. Aldreda was the first to reach them, on the tailend of the cavalry, and the first thing she did was tackle a bewildered human to the ground and proceed into another with her sword swinging. Her comrades followed, and soon the bloody combat resumed. However, this time their advantage did not last long. The humans were quick to even things out, using their fat-contaminated weapons to their full extent. Volleys of the arrows rained down upon the advancing elves, killing some and scratching others. The ones who were grazed by them fared no better, as they almost immediately fell to their knees vomiting, and without strength they were quickly slaughtered. Others were cut by human blades to the same effect. Aldreda almost got the same treatment, but she was quick and managed to jump back to avoid a grazing slash. Though she finished off her opponent, she proceeded with a lot more caution than before, and made sure that some of her warriors were tasked with helping the sickened elves away from the fighting. Then, with yet another valiant battlecry, she joined the fray in earnest.

The humans were smarter in their tactics, as she quickly observed. They had quickly countered the centaurs with the use of tangling nets and long spears, and had actually managed to kill a third of the force. She could see the centaur commander, Cillian, barking orders and trying to regroup his scattered soldiers, and she quickly decided to support him. Rushing to his side, the elven commander called out his name and waved her sword. The centaur turned to look at her, and smiled grimly.

"Ah, Commander Holen, it's good to see that you're still with us!"

"Likewise," Aldreda yelled, her eyes flitting between him and the battle, watchful for attackers. For the moment, however, the centaurs and elves around them had given them some room to talk safely. Aldreda took advantage of it. "Cillian, I need you to get your centaurs out of here and hit them from the other side if you can. We cannot split these humans from one angle."

The centaur nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the battle. "I agree, but that's easier said than done. We lost all of our standard bearers, and the smoke is a bloody pain to see clearly through. I don't think I can rally all of my men unless we gain a respite."

"I'll worry about that," Aldreda replied, absentmindedly wiping her blade with a shred of her cloak. "Just be ready for when the time comes."

The centaur smiled again. "Will do. You have my thanks for—"

The centaur commander was cutoff midsentence by a human arrow. The projectile, aimed and fired from a hundred yards away, pierced through his helmet, entered his skull through his ear, and crunched out the other side. Blood sprayed from the wound, and Cillian's expression became one of surprise and immense pain. With wide eyes he fell, and after a few spasms he lay dead on the ground, a meter from a horrified Aldreda. The elf stared for what felt like an eternity, her eyes wide and her mind filled with agonizing horror. She had seen death so often, yet this one shocked her. It was the suddenness, perhaps, or maybe the fact that Cillian had been one of her best friends. It was both, the latter in greater measure. But in the demanding field of battle, there was no time for grieving, and most certainly no time to be traumatized. The elf took a deep breath, quelling her trembling and her sadness, and set her attention on the battlefield. Everyone around her had noticed the death of the commander, but none had the time to stand around and watch. Everyone resumed fighting with grim expressions on their faces, and many of the nearby centaurs had tearful eyes—they too had lost a good friend. Aldreda did her best to put aside her emotional torment, and made sure that Cillian's Lieutenant took over his command. Then she put her attention back on commanding her own troops, finding her officers and doing her best to manage the situation.

The two opposing forces had remained locked in equal combat for ten minutes, but then, with a sudden burst of reckless courage, the humans surged forward and overwhelmed the foremost groups of fairies. At the same time, the fairies, led by Aldreda, mounted another charge. The result was an appalling melee that dissolved both forces' unit cohesion and had everyone fighting it out in a chaotic rabble of intermixed men and fairies. It was a bloody mess, quite literally, and Aldreda was in the middle of it. She fought hard and fast, her teeth barred and her eyes smoldering with the darkness that was within her heart. She was angry, so very angry, and for her numbed mind the only thing that she could do about it was keep killing. More blood. More death. More destruction. What incredible madness such hell brought out in people!

The female warrior waded through the chaos, seeing her comrades fall all around her. Several of her officers, including her lieutenant, were dead, and her force had no more than half of its original strength left. Even still, she moved through the haze of battle, somehow fighting her opponents and remaining unscathed. And still, she continued to lose more friends. It was all she seemed to see apart from the bodies of the men she killed.

A hole nearby erupted with fire and smoke as human warriors poured molten metal into it, and a few seconds later a group of dwarfs emerged a few yards to the side, desperate to escape the deadly attack. Some had been blinded by the molten metal, others burned to a crisp, and those who had managed to escape unharmed were quickly pierced by spears and swords. Aldreda could do nothing about it, and it would have made her furious had she not already been consumed by anger and hatred. Instead she charged the group of men without a word, kicking the first one into the smoldering pit—where he became submerged face first in the glowing metal—and slashing the second across the stomach. Another two raised their weapons to attack her, but one was struck by a short spear from one of the sprites flying overhead, and the other was too slow to actually land a hit on Aldreda. The elf added yet another soul to her collection of kills, without a word or even a thought. It was all so automatic now.

And in this mindless and violent fashion she continued, ever taking her and her elves closer to where Frond and his warriors fought in a desperate effort to survive.

* * *

Qwan was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the exertion that the spell had required, and it had all been for nothing. He stood above the battlefield, surrounded by the dead, staring out into the smoky haze of the wretched war. Medics were attending to the incapacitated warlocks, but there was little they could do about the reaction they were having towards the animal fat that had been put into their systems. It was all they could do just to ensure that they didn't choke to death on their own vomit. Qwan had watched on for a few minutes, but now he was apart from them, his face contorted with worry and his brow furrowed by intense thought. He could not stand by and do nothing, he knew that much. Frond and the others were going to be trapped—everyone was going to be trapped soon, if nothing changed. The elder warlock had spent most of his power on the failed spell, and it would take a while to rejuvenate, but that did not mean he could remain inactive. He could stand, and he could still bring magic to bear, therefore he was obligated to help his comrades. And so he would.

He glanced over his shoulder, to where the medics were taking care of the warlocks. There were a number of gnome soldiers still alive, and they stood guard adamantly.

"Take care of them," Qwan said firmly. He started walking, but did not get far before one of the gnomes called out.

"Sir, let us guard you! It's dangerous!"

Qwan shot the gnome a glare, suddenly angry. "I can take care of myself," he growled, his magic glowing in his eyes. "These ones need more help than I ever will. Do not let them die." Without waiting for a response, he turned back to face the battle and broke into a run. Time was running out, and every second cost more and more lives. He had to do whatever he could to help, and first he needed to get to Frond. The elven king was in the frightening mass of combatants, and Qwan estimated that he had roughly two-hundred meters of battlefield to traverse before reaching him. Not really that far, but it was still teeming with death and therefore called for caution. _Caution? _Qwan frowned deeply as he approached the battle, and then shook his head. To hell with caution. To hell with it all!

With a determined yell the elder warlock brought his magic to bear, filling the air around him with its swirling presence and calculating what sort of spells would be needed. It only took him a few seconds to do this, and by that time he was upon the edge of the melee. He didn't slow down, not even as he reached the rear ranks of Frond's forces. With magic amplifying his abilities, he jumped over the rows of fairy soldiers and flew through the air. His flight lasted a few seconds, and took him within a hundred meters of the elven king. There he came down upon the brutal fighting, and the humans below saw him coming. Arrows shot up to meet him, their tips glinting in the sunlight and their passage making a distinct whistling sound. He simply swatted them aside, sending them plunging right back into the tightly packed ranks of the human forces, killing scores. Then he was on the ground, landing amidst a group of large and heavily armed humans. Magic softened his landing, and everyone stumbled back in fear of him and his power. They knew who he was, and they were terrified.

"All of you, get out of my way," the warlock rasped.

The humans almost considered doing that, but then their reasoning took over, and they realized they had a chance to kill a warlock—a very grand accomplishment. They attacked all at once, thirty of them in total, but their weapons did not get close the their target. Qwan eyed them angrily, magic glowing all around him, shimmering and full of energy. _Fools. _With a single word and a slight gesture, the warlock sent a blast of magic into the men. It sent them flying like ragdolls, head over heels until they collided with the shields and spears of their own allies. Qwan didn't wait to see the effects of his attack, instead rushing forwards with haste, blasting aside anyone who dared get in his way.

The warlock cut swaths through the human forces, assisting fairies where he could and obliterating resistance everywhere else. He didn't count how many men he sent flying, but it had to be close to four-hundred by the time he reached the epicenter of the battle, where Frond and his elite troops still led the attack on Sargon's main force. He reached them just in time as well, because Sargon's elite had organized a fresh wave of troops and were sending them charging towards Frond's tiring warriors. Qwan entered the scene with an explosion of raw magic, one that washed across fifty meters of the battlefield and sent a wave of kinetic energy through the charging humans. The force knocked them all back, crumpling their shields and wounding many of them, and those who hadn't been hit immediately ceased their advance, suddenly wary of getting closer. Qwan seized the moment, using the respite to get to Frond's side. He found the king standing on a small knoll, directing his forces and shouting commands to his officers.

"Frond…Frond!" the warlock yelled above the din.

The elven king turned to see him, and despite being covered in blood and exhausted from fighting, he smiled.

"Qwan, my old friend. I'm glad you made it. I thought all of you had been killed."

Qwan shook his head. "Not killed, poisoned. Most of them will survive I think."

"Traitor?" the king asked with an arched brow.

"Yes, he was one of the gnomes guarding us. I was too late to stop him…"

"No sense in blaming yourself now," the king said, looking back to the battle. "We must carry on, in whatever way we can. The end is near, but it has not come yet. Our defeat is not certain, neither is Sargon's victory."

Qwan nodded, and then became aware of another familiar face. About two meters to Frond's right stood the demon commander, N'zall. He was coated in blood and gore, and seemed to enjoy it. He had a few human scalps tied to his armor like souvenirs. With a wicked grin he set his eyes on his fellow demon, Qwan, and spoke condescendingly.

"Nice of you to join us."

The warlock eyed the demon commander, but said nothing. Instead he spoke to Frond.

"They are surrounding us, I believe you know."

The king nodded with a frown. "Indeed, I am aware of their encirclement. We do not have much time until we are cut off completely."

"We should withdraw," Qwan said quietly, so that others could not hear.

Frond shook his head. "We may still have a chance. Their numbers are not the only metric in this battle. If we retreat now they will cut us down as he run, and it would only serve to bolster their morale."

"You cannot possibly believe that we still hold the upper hand!" Qwan rasped, astonished by the king's steadfastness in the face of annihilation. He was immediately grabbed from the side by N'zall, who pulled him close and growled in his face.

"Are you suggesting that we run away? That we give up a chance to crush our enemy?!" The demon commander glowered at him, his teeth barred and his face contorted with disgust. "That sounds a lot like what a coward would say. Are you a coward, Qwan? Because I like to festoon my tent with the innards of cowards."

"I am being realistic, for the sake of our survival," the warlock retorted, holding his gaze.

"Calm down, both of you," Frond said firmly, putting a hand on each of them. "Now is not the time for strife between us. I know you two have had your differences, but we must put such things aside." He paused, waiting until the two demons stepped apart and simmered down. "That being said," he continued, "Commander Bludyn is correct. We still have a chance to defeat the humans, even if it is slim. We cannot forgo what could possibly be our last window of opportunity for keeping the surface under our control. We must try! The future of the People depends on our courage!"

Qwan looked Frond in the eye, but did not say anything in agreement. His silence was in protest.

"There is no time to argue the matter," Frond continued, putting his hand on the warlock's shoulder. "I know you think otherwise, and I respect that, but I need everyone to be united in purpose here. I need to know if you are still with me."

"I am, My Lord," Qwan managed to utter, albeit bitterly.

Frond smiled as if he didn't hear the edge to Qwan's voice. "Excellent, my good friend. Then let us get along with the battle, while we still have time to change the outcome. Gods willing we shall."

The elven king turned to face the battle, and nodded to one of his officers. The soldier held Frond's sword, now clean and gleaming like new, and extended it to the king. Frond took it in his right hand, and held it readily. There was a look of complete determination upon his face, one that was a source of encouragement for those around him. In his gleaming armor and wielding his godly sword, he was a symbol to his soldiers, a demigod even. They would follow him wherever he went, even into the spears of Sargon's army.

"We shall mount another offensive," King Frond said smoothly, his sharp eyes examining the battle. "I ask that you join us, Qwan."

The elder warlock said nothing, and that silence was taken as a _yes_.

Frond nodded and then addressed the gathering of officers around him. "We shall bring everything we have to bear on their center force, where Sargon himself is located. That is where the humans' most experienced and loyal men are positioned, while the rest are just a mindless rabble. If we break their center, and take out Sargon and his commanders, we will effectively send the humans into disarray."

"A sound plan," N'zall commented with a grin, licking his lips in anticipation of a fresh attack.

The orders were sent out, and soon all of the units that were not engaged, the ones that were in the rear of Frond's force, were amassed to follow their king into the battle. Those that were already fighting doubled their efforts to hold the humans back. It was all or nothing now. No half-measures would do. Once all the preparations were made, King Frond started towards the front line, his stride long and confident. N'zall, after sneering at Qwan, went as well.

Pride and bloodlust. That was what Frond and N'zall respectively had in excess, and both traits led them to stand and fight when it was a time to cut losses and withdraw to live and fight another day. It would seem that prudence had no place on this battlefield. It would appear that the minds of even the greatest among them had been poisoned by the brutal fighting and made ignorant of reason. At least this was what went through Qwan's mind as he watched the king march onward, with everyone in tow like good little soldiers. It terrified him, how they were being so reckless. It was madness! And yet, despite his anger towards his king, he could not refuse him. There was no sense in refusing to follow him, because that would only divide the army and lead to an even swifter demise. Whatever was to happen, it had to be done as one. Together, they would see it through, to the very end. With that final conclusion in his mind, Qwan followed after King Frond, doing his best to ignore the feeling of dread that was rising in his chest.


	5. Encirclement

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

A mighty _whoosh_ filled the air as General Sargon swung his heavy sword into the shield of a demon warrior. The force of the blow split the shield in half, and retained enough energy to continue through the forearm of the demon and into his forehead, killing him instantly and leaving him twitching on the ground. Acaed Sargon didn't pause, nor did the violence of his actions affect him. This was business, plain and simple, and he always made sure that he went through the same trials as his subordinates, in this case fighting alongside his kin in their final push to destroy Frond's army. As general, he could never afford to lose his skill as a warrior. He had to be just as capable—and more so—than everyone who put their trust in him.

The human, massive and determined, proceeded on to his next set of opponents, these ones being a gathering of elves, demons, and gnomes, ten in all. Though Sargon had many men to back him up, he was on his own—no one wanted to get close to him when he fought, and that was for one very obvious reason. Acaed took all ten of the fairies on at once, starting off with the rather simple but effective practice of sweeping his blade across the foremost of them. He managed to kill three with that, but the rest moved back far enough and then moved swiftly to get around him. He responded with far more speed than they expected, stepping back and bringing his weapon close before lashing out with a series of slashes upon the closest enemies. The first was an elf with the misfortune of getting sliced in half, the second a gnome getting his skull crushed by the flat end of the large blade, and the third a demon who had been far too overconfident in his own strength and ended up blocking a direct hit only to accomplish the shattering of his sword and a very deep cut from his head to his groin. The remaining four wavered and did not attack, but Sargon would not let them have any respite. He killed them all, and it was done with such a cold indifference that it amazed the humans who watched behind him. Sargon took no pleasure in killing, that was obvious, but the way he managed to maintain a level head and a cool countenance even in the madness of combat was ridiculous. It served to further increase his repute as a god among men.

Upon finishing off the last of his direct opponents, the general set his eyes on the distance. It was instinctive, and his instincts were rarely wrong. Sure enough, he could see the fairies rallying in the distance, back behind the main circle of combat. It would appear that Frond was mounting a final charge, likely in hopes of destroying Sargon and his elite troops and thereby destroy the human army's chain of command. It was a very real threat, but it only made Sargon smile a little. It was all a game of strategy, and he had seen yet another piece move into place, just as he expected it to.

After dispatching a few more fairies, he gingerly stepped back from the fighting and to personally oversee the next phase. He had his signal officers working hard to ensure full readiness between his units, and upon scanning the organization of his elite troops he concluded that they were ready. It was at that precise moment when an enormous uproar filled the air, coming from the fairies, followed by an appalling ruckus as Frond led a desperate charge into the heart of the battlefield. Sargon watched as it came, noting the presence of a warlock in their midst. _So our agent failed to get them all. _It was a little irritating, but it nonetheless brought a slight smile to his face. Things were getting interesting. What a glorious battle it would be!

* * *

"Charge! In the name of the gods, charge!" King Erendael Frond screamed as he ran, his sword held out and his face set in a look of fierce determination. Along with his voice rose those of a thousand others, filling the air with a booming roar that was almost deafening. The earth shook, and the smoke that hung over the field was pushed into a swirling frenzy by the sudden and swift movement of the fairy warriors. Banners billowed above the charging force, vibrant in color and enamoring in the way they stood over the chaos, untainted by blood, as if sacred and untouchable by anyone but the gods themselves.

Qwan was just a few feet behind Frond, finding it hard to keep up with the spry king. He breathed heavily, but steadily enough, and focused on his magic. The energy, glowing a startling blue, swirled around him at the ready, and as the courageous procession neared the human lines, he weaved it into a number of spells with which to make the charge unstoppable.

Like a storm on the horizon, it was impossible for anyone to not notice the charge. The humans responded swiftly, thickening their ranks and forming a shieldwall to meet their attackers. A fusillade of arrows was sent over the shieldwall towards the fairies, blurs in the shimmering air with fleeting glints of their metal tips, like hundreds of shooting stars in broad daylight. Qwan saw them coming, and with a few words uttered in the ancient tongue and a gesture of his hand, his magic lashed out to meet them. The arrows were stopped in their thousands, tossed about like chaff in a whirlwind, and then sent careening back into the human army. The humans, having apparently anticipated this, raised a solid wall of shields above their heads, blocking most of the wayward arrows. Nevertheless, it broke their bombardment, and allowed for Frond and his warriors to close the gap without taking any casualties. Now there was no time to whittle the fairies down, not even a little.

Qwan set his eyes on the shield wall ahead. It was an intimidating barrier of shaped metal, gleaming in the sunlight, and from all of its gaps protruded long spears, making it a deadly obstacle. The humans dug their feet in, and supported each other from behind, all in an effort to shatter the fairy charge like water splashing on rock. Of course, Qwan wouldn't allow that. With his magic ever ready, he gestured at the humans before him, now only a few dozen meters away. Magic burst through the air, swift and purposeful, and before any of the humans could react a devastating gust of imperceptible force slammed into them from the side. The entire first few ranks of the human force fell apart, strewn about like ash from an erupting volcano, and it was then that Frond let out a final shout of encouragement.

"Now! For the People!"

With no shieldwall blocking their passage, and the humans in sudden disarray, the fairy charge unleashed its full might upon the enemy, unmitigated, unchecked. It was devastating, a tide of destruction that engulfed everything it came in contact with. Swords and spears glinted, armor gleamed, shields hammered, and voices boomed—all many times over, all lashing out at the human warriors.

Frond and Qwan fought side by side, leading the spearhead into the human ranks. The elven king wielded his sword with deadly grace, his armor shining brilliantly, and the elder warlock wielded his magic and spells of old, filling the air with its power and unleashing it upon everything before him. The others followed them, encouraged by the sight of them—of two mighty leaders of the People—leading the attack. Soon the full number of Frond's force was in the fray, hammering into the humans and showing the full extent of their courage and skill.

It did not take long for the middle of the human force to begin to fall back, gradually giving ground to their determined foes. The fairies pressed onward, pushing deeper and deeper into the human army, taking every inch of earth that the men relinquished. On both sides of them, the humans remained locked in battle, but these ones did not fall back. As a result, Frond and his gathered warriors were going further and further into Sargon's legions, surrounded by humans on all sides but the rear, where what remained of the fairy army fought determinedly. Most of the fairy warriors did not notice this, as in the chaos they could only see their immediate surroundings, but it was clear to the sprites flying overhead. The humans, despite the ferocity of Frond's attack, were not being forced to retreat. They were doing so deliberately, drawing Frond and his warriors further and further away from the rest, deeper into the armored mass of Sargon's elite legions.

Nephan Screeth, the commander of the sprite brigades, was the first to notice this as he flew over the battlefield. It was hard to see through the smoke and haze, which distorted the figures below until one could barely distinguish human from fairy, but Frond stood out in his armor, as did Qwan with his destructive magic. Nephan, having but a few hundred sprites left, was doing his best to aid them, but upon noticing the situation he had to change his plan. He went higher, gazing out across the mass of human warriors. At once he noticed the movement in their ranks, and the repositioning of their forces on the sides. Sargon himself, visible just a few dozen yards from where Frond and Qwan were fighting, was shouting orders and organizing his men. Judging by all that the sprite commander could see, there was little time to warn Frond.

Without hesitation, Commander Screeth rallied his remaining warriors and relayed his orders, and not a second later he had his signal officer blowing his horn repeatedly in warning to the others below. The signal was loud and clear, at least for them in the sky, but it would take longer for Frond to react, given the chaos they were in. In the meantime, Nephan was determined to impede Sargon's movements.

"Come on lads!" he called out to his warriors, who had gathered above the raging battle. "Let's give those oversized bastards something to remember us by!"

With a collective cheer and a readying of weapons, all of the remaining sprites dropped from their refuge high above, plunging towards the humans with astounding speed. Nephan led them personally, spear in hand and mouth agape as he screamed determinedly. Around four hundred of his kin flew around him, all of the same frightful countenance. Their target was the elite human warriors preparing to spring the trap, and General Sargon himself.

With the haze over the battlefield, the sprites were partially hidden, but with the sun glinting off of their steel they were still obvious enough. The humans saw them coming, and reacted quickly, raising their bows and letting fly their contaminated arrows. The projectiles shot up to meet the sprites, shining in the light and passing through the air with a combined sound that was like an incoming gale.

"Break through them!" Nephan bellowed, maintaining his course. Everyone followed his lead, charging towards the humans without hesitation, even as the arrows started to rip through their squadrons. Dozens of sprites were struck by the projectiles, and plummeted lifelessly alongside their still-living comrades. Soon Nephan and the rest were close enough to hit their targets accurately. "Give 'em hell!" he screamed, bringing his spear to bear and aiming it towards Sargon's group. He threw it with a grunt, and his momentum carried it even faster than a regular toss. Alongside his flew hundreds more, and they collided with the humans with great effect. Even with their shields raised, the heavy spears struck with enough force to pierce and kill. Hundreds of humans fell in seconds, and Nephan's spear flew only a foot to General Sargon's right, impaling one of his officers.

"Again!" Commander Screeth yelled, retrieving another short spear from the case slung over his back—each sprite had ten spears. More spears flew, and more humans fell, but not without there being reprisal. The humans hammered the approaching sprites with a continuous volley of arrows, striking many of them. By the time the airborne fairies were within fifty feet from the ground, they had lost half of their number. Yet despite the losses, their charge was unbroken, their determination unscratched, and their goal unchanged. Nephan Screeth, still at their front, let out a courageous roar, and threw another spear. More humans fell. More sprites fell. More death, always more.

The sprite commander was close to Sargon, and it was his firm intention to kill him, whatever the cost. He had his eyes locked on him, and in his heart burned the dark yearning to end the man's life. It had to be done! Frond and the others were in danger, all because of the one human's intellect. And the brain of a strategist was the greatest weapon of all. To silence it was far more decisive than to silence a thousand men. Screeth gripped another spear, going as fast as he could before he reached the ground, and thought of nothing but that goal. His own life meant nothing. Victory. Death. Both went hand in hand, for the courageous were always the first to die, and he was no coward.

The sprites swept over the humans, killing and being killed. Death was everywhere, for both sides, and through it all Commander Screeth flew. He was only a few dozen yards from Sargon when he saw the human general face him, and even from afar they locked eyes. The sprite put every ounce of his strength into his efforts, and flew right at the man, covering the last little distance with ridiculous speed. He drew his arm back to throw his spear, and cursed the man below him, cursed all of humanity. To hell with them all! It was in that moment of readiness, that fleeting second before the irreversible flying of the weapon, that he saw a glint in between him and his target, and then heard a distinct whistle in the air. He blinked, but that was all he could do. He didn't even feel anything as an arrow pierced through his forehead and went right out the other side.

* * *

Acaed Sargon didn't even flinch as the dead sprite commander rammed into the ground at his feet, partially exploding from the impact. He simply watched, and then lowered the bow from which he had fired the fatal shot. With a satisfied nod, he gave the bow to the man beside him, and then spoke coolly to the corpse before him. "A brave effort, valiant indeed. But all it accomplished was your untimely demise. It is a good thing that you are not around to see the fruitlessness of your sacrifice." He then turned his eyes to the sky, where only a few sprites remained; their attack had been fought off, the tables turned again, and now was the time to finish it all.

The human general looked to his officers, who had been coordinating with the other divisions. Each nodded, indicating that all was at the ready. Sargon nodded in return, and then set his eyes forward, to the maddening chaos of the battle where Frond fought. That old elf, full of courage and nobility, still believed he could have victory; he refused to give up, such was his determination, his delusion. It was absurd, but it aroused no pity within the old human strategist. Frond had made a gamble, and he had lost. It was a common event in war, not a tragic fluke.

"Close them in," he said calmly, giving his men the signal. Drums beat and flags waved, sending a ripple of awareness through the human ranks. Everyone knew what to do, even those caught up in the brutal combat. Directly in front of Sargon, the elite troops ceased their gradual retreat and dug themselves in to hold the line. To the left and right, the troops pressed in and overwhelmed whatever opponents still remained, quickly forming solid ranks and advancing towards Frond's force, spears lowered and shields ready. To the rear, a few hundred meters away, a division of Sargon's best troops, hidden amidst the regulars, broke off from the fighting and charged recklessly through the fairy rearguard, taking losses but also obliterating those who stood in their way. Soon a few hundred men were directly behind Frond's forces, and more broke through by the second. With military precision and impressive courage, they charged into the fray, cutting into the backs of the fairies who had been distracted fighting the other humans. It took one minute for this to happen, and by its end there was a solid square of human warriors surrounding Frond from all sides. At the same time, the rest of the human army pressed forward, further encircling them and seeking out the fairies that remained outside the trap.

General Sargon watched it all happen from the small hillock, and upon its flawless completion, he drew his sword and set his eyes on the fierce combat ahead. All that was left to do was slaughter them. Every last one, without discretion, without mercy. It was the only way humanity's victory could be ultimate and irreversible. And so it would be.

* * *

The tingle of magic filled the air, thrilling and electric, and its natural beauty mingled with the horrendous nightmare of the battlefield. Its brilliant blue mixed with the crimson of spilt blood, and its noiseless passage was given a voice by the screams of those it killed. It was a flawless, wondrous creation, an entity of such power and glory that it would move all others to envy, the riches of the world and knowledge of scholars all mere trinkets compared to the innate wonder of magic. Its splendor, timeless and incredible, was only as equaled by its potential for evil. Qwan knew this potential well, for he used it to that end. In the malodorous haze of battle, he used its power to take lives, by the dozens, by the hundreds. It was his firm belief that what he did was not evil, for he did it out of necessity, but even still, as he slaughtered a group of men, he could not help but feel sickness within him. He had spent his whole life studying magic, intent on using it to improve the lives of all. Now, as if all of his work had meant nothing, he used it in its crude, simple application of war.

The elder warlock was still by Frond's side, fighting madly to survive. All around them was chaos, madness personified, and so consumed was he by it that he failed to notice the changing circumstances until it was far too late. A trumpet sounded from overhead, warning them of the impending trap, but he did not hear it. Others did, but what could they do about it? What could anyone do, when they were locked in a struggle to the death? Frond must have heard, Qwan refused to think otherwise, but despite this the old elf fought on, as if being surrounded meant nothing. Frond kept pressing forward, rallying his warriors and shouting words of encouragement, all while staining his sword and every inch of his body with the blood of his enemies. Most followed him without hesitation, especially the demons. N'zall was in a frenzy, laughing like a maniac as he went from one opponent to the next, killing all of them with the same demonic glee. Qwan stayed with them, even though he was not of the same convictions. It was his duty to remain true to his people, even if it was by following the lead of a foolish king. He had to protect them, or at least try.

After blasting a large human to the side, and using another spell to disintegrate a dozen more who were charging at him, the weary warlock made his way directly to Frond's side. "My Lord!" he yelled in his ear. He had to do so several times before Frond noticed him. The king turned and, after a brief moment of confusion, smiled.

"Keep fighting, old friend. It will be worth it!"

Frond's face was covered with blood, and his expression contained such confidence and fearlessness that it made the warlock stutter before speaking again.

"They are surrounding us! Sargon wants us to keep fighting him! We are sealing our fate!"

"Then let us prove him wrong," Frond replied placidly, as certain as ever. "We can still have victory. The gods are with us!"

Qwan looked into his king's eyes, and for a moment he saw nothing but that firm resolve of his. Then, like seeing specks of metal glinting beneath the surface of a pond, he perceived a glimmer of irrationality, of delusion and madness. It became clear, at that moment, that Frond had partially lost his mind. It was a subtle mental breakdown, almost imperceptible, but Qwan knew Frond well, and he knew that he was not thinking clearly, if at all. He was consumed, overwhelmed, by a sense of duty and honor, pushed by such persuasions into fighting a losing battle. In his mind, Frond thought victory to be there, as if on a hill in the distance, gleaming to be taken for the People. But it was not. There was no victory, no end to the battle but through defeat. King Frond was leading everyone into the oblivion of death, headlong into the afterlife as if that was their goal to begin with. It was madness, and as Qwan took it all in in a moment of shock and dismay, he spoke it as it was.

"Frond, we cannot win! We must retreat!"

Frond sunk his blade into a human warrior, and then spun on Qwan in a sudden fit of rage. "Retreat?! Did you just suggest that we become cowards before the eyes of history, before the gods themselves?!"

Qwan nodded, absentmindedly using his magic to swat aside another group of humans. "If it means the survival of the People," he said after a moment, "then so be it. Only a fool would throw so many lives away!"

Frond was furious, his mind clouded and his thoughts tainted by insanity. He looked about ready to attack his friend, but before he could do something that stupid, the fighting around them intensified. The humans were pressing in from all directions, relentlessly forcing the fairies into a tight square. Arrows whistled overhead, raining down amidst the fairies with horrific results, and from behind the shield walls of men whooshed volleys of heavy spears and javelins. One of such projectiles nearly killed Frond, slamming into his chest plate with enough force to crack it. The elf was sent sprawling, and on the ground he lay fighting for breath, unable to defend himself. The humans set upon him, and the only thing that kept him from being impaled by a dozen blades was Qwan. The warlock was there at the last second, sweeping the men aside with a precise blast of kinetic energy. He turned around and repelled a second group of attackers, and only after Frond's royal guard managed to swarm around them in a defensive circle did the warlock turn back to the elf. Frond seemed to be in a daze, staring upwards at the sky, ignorant of all the hell around him. Then he blinked, his eyes focusing and darting about rapidly. A ragged sentence escaped his lips.

"I lost control…I lost myself..."

Qwan grabbed the shaken elf and helped him to his feet. The battle raged around them, loud and horrifying, but they could still hear each other well enough.

"Are you yourself, Frond?" the warlock asked. "Or will it take another spear to knock some sense into you?"

"One was enough…" the tired elf rasped, catching his breath and supporting himself with his sword. He looked at Qwan, a grim expression on his face. "I am sorry."

"No time for that now, old friend," the warlock replied, his voice level and bereft of any judgment.

"Aye, I suppose not…"

Their attention was taken away from the matter when a sprite landed hurriedly beside them. It was one of Frond's scouts, and he was breathing heavily from exertion. The look on his face was one that indicated the utmost importance in what he had to say. "My Lord!" he yelled over the din of battle, and so desperate was he that he didn't wait for the king's acknowledgement. "I come from the rearguard, after following scouting orders from Commander Kendth. We have been trying to reach you for a while, but the human archers are well trained and killed most of our messengers, all but myself. I bear grave news, My Lord."

Frond nodded, his brow furrowed.

"The humans have us surrounded on all sides," the scout continued, "and their forces are moving further up the hill to gain the high ground and entrench on our escape route. The forests around the hill are fully ablaze, but more humans wait beyond in all directions. At least twenty-thousand men are waiting beyond should we manage to break through." The sprite paused, as if trying to process more terrible news that he himself had difficulty believing. "We have also lost Commanders Tryndiran and Screeth, and Commander Grundin has been seriously wounded. Our left flank has collapsed, and only Commander Holen's infantry remain holding the right."

It was grave news indeed, and for a moment no one, not even the king himself, had a response. What could be said? What could be done? Sargon and his men had them surrounded, outnumbered, and overall at a terrible disadvantage. It was a nightmare. Frond took a moment to gather himself, such was his dismay, and then he spoke candidly to the messenger.

"Go and inform Commander Kendth that he is to do everything he can to regroup those who remain outside this entrapment. Have him and Aldreda consolidate their forces and break through the humans blocking our retreat. Don't have them wait for us. They must save themselves."

"Sir?" the sprite said in shock, staring at the elf. "What about you and the rest?"

Frond's face was overtaken by a grim expression, the undulations of his countenance betraying not only his shame and bitterness, but also his fear. "We shall fight as long as we can. Perhaps we will be able to escape as well. But I cannot let the others throw their lives away trying to save us. I already led these brave people this slaughter, I shall not do that with those who still have a chance to live on." He paused, noting the sprite's shaken expression. "Go! That's my final order to you as your king!"

The messenger stammered an apology, his words not lacking in sorrow, and then took to the sky, disappearing into the haze and, hopefully, avoiding the arrows that the humans fired after him.

Qwan used his magic to divert some of the arrows, and after he was certain the messenger was free of the danger, he turned his attention back to his king, who stood by his banner, frozen in a moment of dreadful thought. Frond's expression was no longer anything remotely like the courageous mask he had worn earlier. There were lines of weariness on his face, wrinkles that had not been visible before. And in his eyes was fear and shame in equal measure. He looked at the sky, as if beseeching the gods, and then at the bloody chaos before him.

"I have failed them," he whispered, his words lost to all but Qwan. "I have failed them all…" He turned, locking eyes with Qwan, and in a moment of courage—or perhaps acceptance—he smiled thinly. "Come, let us not keep our adversary waiting. We must do everything we can."

_Whatever that may amount to…_


	6. Breakthrough

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

"Follow me, comrades! King Frond and the others are depending on our courage!"

Commander Aldreda Holen sprinted through the chaos, sword in hand and steel of equal strength in her expression. A heavy swing from a human sword whooshed over her head, and with her speed carrying her forward she rammed her boot into the knee of her attacker, shattering bone and cartilage. Her sword came next, glistening in the hot summer air, killing the human as he fell. So went another opponent, dead like the rest. She had no idea how many she had killed, she had lost count long ago. Suffice it to say that her blade was starting to get dull.

The elven commander pressed on, her tenacity seemingly bottomless, and along with her came what was left of her division. They followed her without question, without fear, and without vacillation. It was her firm desire to get to Frond and the others, who had been surrounded and here being slaughtered from all sides. She had a duty to all fairies, not just her direct subordinates, and as warriors of the People their own lives were a good price to pay to save others and to uphold their honor and distinguished legacy. Aldreda's thoughts on it were simpler than that, for she was not one to be consumed by the pompous trivialities of chivalry. Frond, Qwan, and many of her friends, were in great danger. It was her responsibility to try to save them. They may all die on that bloody field, even her, but she refused to let such doom be a result of her refusal put herself in greater peril for the sake of others. Whether they had victory or fell into oblivion, she would stay true to her heart, to who she was, to the very end.

Aldreda continued her fight, but was soon interrupted by a very disheveled messenger. The sprite landed beside her, in the midst of the fighting, and only after a minute of intense combat could they talk.

"I bring word from King Frond," the sprite said.

Aldreda nodded, but kept her eyes forward. She had stopped, letting her elves carry onward for the moment, and she did not like it. "Speak! I am very busy trying to get him out of this mess!"

"That's what he wants to tell you about," the sprite replied sullenly. "He wants you and all those who remain outside the encirclement to fall back. He wants you to save yourselves, rather than die trying to save him."

"What?!" Aldreda growled, her eyes flicking momentarily to the messenger before switching back to the fighting. "That is insane. Has he gone mad?!"

"I honestly have no idea, Commander," the sprite said dejectedly. "But Frond's orders stand. Commander Kendth is rallying the rearguard to secure an escape route. You must as well."

"To hell with that!" Aldreda yelled, glaring at the sprite. "We're getting them out of there, all of them! I will not leave anyone behind! No one!"

The sprite seemed astonished, and he sputtered his hurried response. "But Commander, we can't just disregard Frond's orders—"

"Shut up!" the elf growled, her expression so fierce that it made the sprite shudder. "I am doing exactly that! If you don't like it, either get out of my way or try to stop me!" When the messenger did nothing but stare at her, she nodded curtly. "I didn't think so. Now…" She got closer to the sprite so he could hear her better. "New plan. Have Kendth establish a secure path to the north, or at least keep their flanking forces busy. Once we reach Frond and secure a way out, it will be a fighting retreat. Get whatever dwarfs you can and have them dig trenches along our flanks, and keep your sprites in the air watching for any changes. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, very clear Ma'am," the sprite managed to say.

Aldreda slapped the sprite on she shoulder, snapping him out of his fearful daze. "Then get to it soldier!" The sprite saluted shakily before taking to the sky, leaving the elf to her duties. She immediately focused on the battle, noting the steady progress of her warriors. They only needed to go a little further, and so, after sprinting to the frontline, the tenacious elven commander threw herself into the fray, screaming like a devil and scaring the hell out of every human she came across.

The elven infantry followed her heroic—and arguably crazy—example, and with great courage and alarming success, they charged through the battlefield towards their entrapped allies, shattering the attempts by the humans to hold them back. Shield walls, glinting weapons, whistling arrows, and powerful men got in their way at every moment, but Aldreda would not be refused the accomplishment of her goal, nor would the thousand or so elves alongside her. Their numbers continued to fall, and as they proceeded forward they left many wounded or dying elves on the blood-stained grass, but they did not falter. They persisted, and died, knowing it was for the greatest cause of all.

Through the smoke and horror Aldreda let the assault, and so demanding was the fighting that she did not see Frond's ensnared force until they reached its right flank. A thick wall of human warriors blocked the last few dozen meters, but they were facing Frond, not Aldreda and her swift infantry. She did not hesitate to slam right into the backs of the enemy, swinging wildly and screaming like a lunatic. It took them completely by surprise, and before they could respond all of the remaining elves were upon them, cutting and stabbing with merciless dedication to their objective. It took several minutes, and cost a hundred lives, but they managed to break through, and the might of their assault sent a ripple of confusion and wariness through the rest of the nearby humans, giving Frond's troops a chance to counterattack. Despite heavy losses, the results were favorable, and soon the fairies had thinned the enemy at their rear and right, leaving a viable opening for retreat.

Aldreda barked orders and encouraged those around her until she found King Frond. The elf was still near the thick of battle, alongside Qwan and several of his commanders. When he noticed her he disengaged and met her halfway, a mixed expression on his face.

"My Lord," Aldreda called out, indicating towards the hill. "We have secured an opening, we must move quickly!"

"I explicitly ordered you not to come to our direct aid," Frond said firmly, his blood-stained countenance making him quite imposing, though not to the female elf.

"Well I did," Aldreda stated brusquely, "so court-martial me later if you want."

The king held her gaze, but visibly cooled down. "It won't come to that. You did well. I thought it impossible to break through like you did."

"Thank you, but we don't have time for compliments. Sargon is already ordering detachments to plug the gap we made. Time is not on our side."

"That it is not," Frond said thoughtfully.

Qwan and the other commanders had joined them by this time, and they all waited on Frond's word—all except for N'zall, who was still distracted by his insatiable thirst for blood. The weary king looked to them all, and with an almost apologetic expression, gave them the order to retreat. Everyone followed it wordlessly, and there was an air of great solemnity. Orders were sent, relayed by flags, drums, and trumpets, and after an initial wave of hesitation—for the idea of retreating was sour to most—the remaining fairies started to withdraw from the fighting. It was a dangerous process, for at the first sign of the retreat the humans surged forward, determined to cut them down. It was Qwan, N'zall, and Aldreda who stopped them from overwhelming the routed fairies.

Qwan brought his magic to bear once more, gritting his teeth and fighting back the exhaustion that was threatening to make his body fall out from under him. The magic blasted through the air, weaving into defensive spells that blocked the arrows and the advancing hordes of men. Even still, he was just one warlock, and to the left and right Sargon's men moved freely. N'zall, being as bloodthirsty as ever, took his remaining demon infantry and diced into the humans on the left, slowing them down enough to allow the fairies to gain ground. On the right, Aldreda led her elves in the same effort, braving the dreadfully numerous enemy so that the others—including the wounded and sick—could be evacuated. They were assisted by dwarf engineers, who dug long trenches along the flanks and cut off the groups of men who sought to outmaneuver the retreating fairies.

While the battle raged onward, the rest of the fairy army retreated back up the hill, hoping that there was a way out over its summit. There was a gap in the flaming forests over the hill, one that would allow them to escape into the rolling hills and forested valleys of the land beyond. If the humans were blocking it, they would have to fight their way out. It was all or nothing this time.

King Frond stayed back to behold the fighting, waiting until most of his people were past him before even considering following them. But he waited, unable to move whilst his friends fought below. They were falling back gradually, giving ground to the humans but keeping them at bay all the same. It appeared that it may actually succeed, but the very moment that notion entered Frond's mind, a chorus of booming shouts sounded from the hill above. Everyone looked to its summit, and their eyes were met by the sight of humans, not fairies, amassing upon it. It became obvious that the humans who had been waiting beyond the burning forests had come around completely, using the small gap to come up behind the fairies and seize the high ground. They had done so with an unexpected swiftness, and it filled every fairy with shock, fear, and uncertainty.

The retreating fairies wavered, coming to a halt before the looming force of yelling humans. The men hammered their weapons on their shields, and chanted their cries of battle so that they echoed over the land in a rolling chorus that was like thunder. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they attacked. Arrows—hundreds upon hundreds—flew from behind the visible ranks, arcing over the hill and coming down upon the exposed fairies. Frond gaped as this happened, his heart in his throat.

"Pull back! Down the hill!" he yelled.

The fairies ran, stumbled, and limped down the hill, scattered and disorganized. The arrows found many of them, and once more they were dipped in animal fat. The number of fairies that died outnumbered those that managed to get out of the archers' range. Frond was utterly furious as he watched this, and by the time everyone had gathered in the middle of the hill, he could not help but curse openly. Below raged the battle between their rearguard and Sargon's legions; above loomed an untold number of fresh human warriors, holding the high ground; to the left and right burned the dry forests, solid walls of black smoke over towering flames. There was no way out, at least no easy way. Once more, they faced death on all sides.

Far below, still amidst the teeming masses of fighting warriors, Qwan let loose a vicious attack upon the humans, sending a hundred of them flying backwards as if struck by a monstrous gust of wind. The warlock breathed heavily, blinking repeatedly as sweat ran down his brow, but he did not weaken his attacks, nor did his resolve lose any of its edge. He had to buy Frond time! But then he looked over his shoulder, and noticed the humans on the hill above. It dawned on him then and there that the plan was a total failure, at least as it stood. Something had to be done!

Qwan glanced to the side, where the forests burned brightly, and then he got an idea. He did not wait for it to solidify in his mind, nor did he question it. He simply burst into action, sweeping aside a group of humans before rushing towards where the demons were fighting. He found N'zall almost immediately, who was fighting with an endless grin on his face. Unlike everyone else, he was enjoying the battle.

"N'zall!" Qwan called, getting the other's attention.

"What?" the demon commander yelled over his shoulder as he gutted a human warrior with his wicked sword.

"I need you to guard the center as well! I must make a way out for the others!"

The demon growled. "I knew you couldn't handle fighting. You were always a coward." He paused, his grin widening a little. "But then again, I do appreciate the prospect of more humans to slaughter, and I am no coward like you. Consider it done, you prick!"

Qwan felt equal levels of relief and irritation, and in the heat of the moment he expressed both in a sardonic smile. Then he was moving again, rushing towards where Frond and his forces were rallying. At the same time, the humans on the hill let out another wave of battle cries, and surged forward in an all-out sprint towards the trapped fairies. Qwan gritted his teeth, his eyes on the forest just to the right of the fairies. His magic was ready, it always was, and as he moved he began to weave it together, making its strands come together into a useful work of the arcane art of spellcraft. He had no time to waste, so he simply screamed at those before him to get down. They did so surprisingly fast, and not a moment later the warlock unleashed his magic. It blasted through the air, moving like lightning and gleaming brighter than any bolt of electricity. With a noiseless explosion it rammed into the burning forest, consuming a hundred-foot wide section of it from one side to the other. Magic raged against fire, smoke, and heat, forces of the natural world pitted against each other by the will of the warlock. For a moment it was total chaos, but then, with startling suddenness, the fire disappeared along with the smoke, leaving a gap in the deadly inferno. The magic remained there, holding off the heat and smoke on both sides, and smothering that which was in the earth beneath it. On the other side of the path, beyond the fire and smoke and horrors of battle, were green hills and lush forests. Freedom. Life. Hope.

"Go!" Qwan screamed, waving his arms and gesticulating towards the passage.

No one hesitated. The static mass of trapped fairies quickly broke into a run, heaving towards the opening with every ounce of strength they could muster in their tired, beaten bodies. The humans above kept coming, running faster now that they saw the change in circumstances. Those below continued to rage against the fairies that kept them back, and this time they were able to break through in several spots. The elves and demons fell back again, keeping right on the heels of their retreating brethren, but even with their organized method it was clear that they could not do so for very long. The humans were too numerous.

Qwan did everything he could to help, but his strength was failing him. His whole body ached as he threw back the humans coming down the hill, and he knew at that moment that he could not do it again. He lost his footing, and fell to his knees just before the entrance to the escape route. Everything was blurred as he tried to get to his feet, and suddenly all the sounds and smells of the world around him were stronger, appallingly so. He coughed and tried to steady himself, and once he stood up fully he took in the chaos around him. Haze and heat filled the air from the nearby inferno, and the sight of running fairies flew past him, rapid and constant. He turned around to see the fighting still behind him, very close now, and then realized that the humans were almost upon them. The demons were retreating now too, and he saw four of them carrying N'zall, who had an arrow embedded in his chest. It was clear to him now that the humans were going to overtake them before they could get away.

_Not if I can do something about it…_

Qwan steadied himself and tried to bring his magic to bear. He called upon it, begging for the strength to wield it. He failed, his strength dried up and his body just barely responsive to his commands. The weight of his excessive use of his magic was catching up to him, along with the exhaustion of battle. He tried again, and failed once more, and that was when he saw a human appear through the chaos before him. The man saw him and attacked, coming at him with a spear. For a moment it seemed like it was all over. But then a familiar voice screamed to his right, and a flash of steel flew through the air. The human warrior fell forward, as if tripped, his spear missing Qwan by an inch. A dagger was embedded in his head, and its thrower appeared a moment later. It was Aldreda Holen, alive and covered in blood.

"Qwan!" she yelled over the din, rushing to his side with a worried expression on her face. "Are you wounded?"

"I am fine, thanks to you," the warlock rasped.

Aldreda gave him a stern look. "Why are you still here? You need to get out with the others!" She spun about all the sudden, facing a group of humans who had broken through the fighting. A goblin behind them threw a fireball and struck one down, and another elf took another. Aldreda engaged the remaining two at the same time, slashing one with her sword while ramming a dagger into the other with her spare hand. Then she glanced back at Qwan, her face contorted with urgency. "What are you waiting for? Go!"

"I need to stay here to hold them back," Qwan managed to say. "If it is the last thing I do, I will see to it that you all get out of here, alive."

Aldreda, caught up fighting, responded after taking care of matters. "Stop being an idiot Qwan! You are not up to the task. And besides, Frond will need your power to help against whatever is out there waiting for us! Don't waste it here!"

Qwan looked at her, astonished. "You mean to stay here yourself?"

The elven commander seemed unfazed by the prospect. "I will do everything I can. Some volunteers and I are staying to buy time."

"You will die!"

"We all will if we do not stop them! And maybe I won't!"

Qwan was about to argue more when the battle came upon then in earnest, with more and more humans breaking through and seeking to cut down the retreating fairies. Many fairies, including the wounded and the incapacitated warlocks, were still being guided into the opening. Aldreda looked towards the approaching combat, a fierce look on her face and a fire in her eyes. Her sword was ready, and her comrades stood around them to join the fray. She was ready for it.

"You have to leave, now!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"I will not leave you here Aldreda!" Qwan shouted, much to his body's pain.

The elven commander growled with frustration, and then got the attention of two of her warriors. She pointed at Qwan. "Get him out of here before it's too late. He will try to resist, but he has not the strength. Protect him with your lives!"

The two elves complied wordlessly, understanding the situation completely. They grabbed Qwan by the arms and tried to get him walking, and when he refused to budge, they simply dragged him against his will. He could do nothing but watch, such was the toll his magic had taken. He wanted to say something more to her, so much more. It could be the last time! The last! But he could not, and as he was taken away from her, away from his beloved friend, he could not help but shed a tear. There she stood, in the chaos before them, amidst the haze and bloodshed, so certain and strong. But that strength had its limits. All heroes did.

The soldiers were taking him away as quickly as they could, but before he was taken out of earshot from her, he saw her turn to look at him, her hazel eyes locking on his for a brief, powerful moment. She spoke softly, her voice almost lost in the chaos, but Qwan heard it as if it was being screamed into the very depths of his soul.

"Just remember your promise to me, old friend."

Qwan felt sorrow well up within him, but he managed to give her a reassuring look. "I will, Aldreda. I am sorry I cannot do more."

The elf smiled a little, and the light from the fires glinted in her brilliant eyes. "All is forgiven. Be well, Qwan. Someday we will meet again."

Qwan stared after her, tears stinging his eyes and distorting his final sight of her. Then she was gone, faded away in the haze and obscured by the horrible chaos of battle. He kept staring, feeling the sheer weight of his own uselessness, his powerlessness to be of any further help, sweep over him like a dreadful chill. He felt terrible, so very terrible, as he remembered their discussion on the eve of battle—it felt like a discussion in another life. Aldreda had never wanted to die, nor would she ever, but there she went, facing the certainty of it with courage. She had lost her husband to such selflessness, for in his moment of courage he died to save her life. Was she repeating it here with her own? No, she would not. She had a treasure waiting for her far away, safe from the madness of war, a treasure that she wanted to be with more than anything else. It was her daughter, sweet little Elaine. Aldreda fought for her, so that one day she could be a loving mother and not an absent warrior whose existence was only verified by brief visits and stained letters. That was her dream, and a long time ago it would have been an easy one to accomplish, but not now. War had taken root in her life and choked out that dream, denying her the simple pleasure of being with her child. This battle had been a final chance at it, but that too was another shattered dream. Was she doomed to fight forever, until Death—her daily companion, patient and attentive—took her away? Qwan prayed to the gods that this was not to be. But as he was dragged away from her, the sounds of fierce battle followed after him, tingeing his hopes and making hollow his prayer. On deaf ears and immovable hearts it fell.


	7. Aldreda

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

_The smell of wildflowers danced on the breeze, sometimes strong and exhilarating, and at others fleeting and faint, but present all the same. The fields were an emerald green, the undulating hills blanketed in the patient and wise trees of old, and in the valleys glittered rivers and lakes of the purest water. Birdsong rang in the air, all cheerful notes of the hopeful little creatures, bereft of turmoil and never wanting in vibrancy. Above it all, a glorious sun and a spotless blue sky formed the backdrop of the verdant world, and there was great beauty in its endless and simple presence, as if in the single shade of blue and the glowing yellow orb was more detail and thought than the greatest works of art. Only the hands of the divine could craft such a sight! The mortal world stood beneath it in wonder, as it always did._

_This calming environment was all well and good, wondrous in fact, but for Aldreda it was only a reminder of what the People stood to lose to their enemy. The humans did not cherish the trees and the rivers as they did, nor did they gaze upon the land with reverence of its beauty. They destroyed it, took all it had to offer, and moved on. The thought made the elf frown even more, but it was only a drop in the depthless sea of sorrow and uncertainty within her heart. So much more plagued her._

_The elven commander was dressed in her uniform, her sword slung over her back and her gear in a worn pack. Soon she would be fully dressed for battle, but not yet—that time would come soon enough, and from then onward the feeling of the world around her would be blemished by the cold embrace of metal. She walked purposefully, but let the wind come over her, cooling her body and easing her mind just a little. It felt so wonderful, and she tried to savor it. Her thoughts, blackened by what was to come, took every ounce of contentment she had left._

_A camp stretched out before her, massive and full of activity. Thousands of tents, all white, stood like clouds upon the sea of emerald grass. Lazy trails of smoke rose to the sky from fires, and the sound of many fairies drifted in the warm, humid air. There were over fifty-thousand fairies living in it, of all creeds and persuasions, all united under the blue sky that would bear witness to their final moments as a species. They were all refugees, from distant lands fallen to the humans, and they were the last of the once great race of the People. Only shabby tents and carried trinkets remained, none of the grand cities and heartwarming towns, none of their glory. They were a broken bunch, all clinging to a final shred of hope._

_The last effort to retain their status as the dominant race was at hand. A battle was looming, and everyone knew of it—the air was filled with the imperceptible veil of fear and uncertainty. Aldreda could see it in all the faces she passed, in varying degrees of openness; fear, laced with sorrow, seemed more prevalent than anything else._

_Aldreda knew that time was short. Frond was preparing for battle, and so his last remaining legions were making their final preparations before moving out. At the same time, all of the defenseless fairies would be taken further away, to where they could retreat belowground if the need arose. At that very moment the army was gathering, a kilometer beyond the camp in an open field. Most of the warriors were there already, but some hung back, including Aldreda. She had to pay a visit to what she held dear most, to the treasure that kept her going day by day, the motivation for her ceaseless effort and the consolation for her broken heart. Her daughter._

_The elven commander reached the tent she was looking for, and paused in front of it. There were two elves there, an older couple whose relation to her was distant. They had been taking care of Elaine in her absence, and would do so once more, much to her regret. The two of them met her outside the tent, and after a hushed exchange of words, left her to go in alone. Aldreda put her hand on the flap, hesitating for a moment, and then stepped inside. _

_The elf saw nothing of the interior before her, none of its furnishings or elements. Her whole world condensed and focused, all else becoming utterly irrelevant in an instant. Nothing existed to her but the child she saw sitting on a little bed, her precious Elaine. At first her daughter did not notice her, her eyes downcast to read the book that was on her lap—her studies kept her busy and away from the horrors of reality. But when Aldreda got close, she looked up, startled and uncertain upon being pulled from her concentration. Her face was so much like her mother's, and her auburn hair was long and luminous. Eyes, hazel and filled with innocence, looked up into the hard hazel eyes of a warrior whose innocence had died a lifetime ago. Neither said anything for a long moment. Seeing each other had become a rare experience as of late._

"_Elaine," Aldreda said finally. She tried to smile, and managed to do so passably. _

_Her daughter looked up at her unblinkingly, a combination of curiosity and sorrow in her eyes. She did not smile, and her face gave no indication that she was happy to see her. "You're going away again, aren't you?" _

_The words were sharp-edged and uttered with a bitterness that did not belong in a child. They hit Aldreda hard, but not as hard as the accusatory look on the child's face. A response did not come to her immediately, such was her melancholy. Instead she dropped her gear where she stood and carefully took a seat beside the child. For a moment she sat there, searching for any change in the girl's countenance, but to no avail. Elaine would not say or do anything until her question was answered. With a sigh, Aldreda did so._

"_Yes, I am going away…again…"_

"_Why?" Elaine asked immediately._

_Aldreda's throat tightened a little, all of her strength and grit utterly meaningless against the child's inquiry. How could she possibly explain the reasons to the girl? How could she admit to her, for the thousandth time, that she was embarking on the path of war, to kill others and perhaps face that same fate? It hurt her so much to even consider doing so, for her Elaine was so young, so pure, so untainted by the world. To admit to her that the war was not over, that it would never end until one side was wiped out completely, was to admit that all the years of struggle, all the months spent away from her, had accomplished nothing. But neither could she lie to her precious daughter, for she deserved her mother's honesty, the truth. Which would hurt more? Reality, or a false one that would eventually be shattered? Looking into Elaine's eyes, and fruitlessly trying to remember the last time they had sparkled with joy, she could not lie._

"_I am going to fight against the humans…for the last time…"_

_Elaine's young face was contorted by a sad expression. Without a word she looked dejectedly at the floor, as if she had expected such an answer but still could not accept it fully. She looked so fragile, so alone, and it broke Aldreda's heart._

"_I am sorry," she said to her child, taking her right hand in hers. "I am so sorry…"_

_The apology met deaf ears and bounced off of a hardened heart. All Elaine did was sigh and keep staring at the floor, as if nothing could console her. Even still, her hand tightened around her mother's, holding on to her as if by doing so it could keep her from leaving, as if she had the power to stop the war with nothing but her childish refusal to accept it. Aldreda smiled a little, sadly at first, but then warmly. Her sorrow and affection were like two warring factions in her heart, locked in a war of attrition._

"_I am sorry that I must go, Elaine. It is not fair to you, it never was." She put her other arm around her, and drew her close. "This is the last time I will go out there to fight, I promise. I will lay down my sword and never pick it up again."_

_Elaine seemed hesitant in the embrace at first, but then, suddenly, she pressed herself into her mother's chest and wept. Her attempts at being cold and stubborn ended with her fear and sorrow—that of a child whose life had been robbed of its certitude—and with unbridled emotion she took comfort in the embrace. It broke through like the sun through a stormy sky, a brief and precious glimmer of the life they used to share, and yearned to have again. _

_Aldreda held her close, tearful but smiling all the same, happy to see that her daughter still loved her despite being abandoned for the purpose of war. As she held her child, the elven commander noticed the room around them, seeing the things that Elaine had kept with her over the months. There were drawings and odd little trinkets, books and toys, but Aldreda did not recognize any of them. She did not even know what she was studying, or what games she liked to play, or what her favorite food was. She barely knew her own daughter, more of a stranger than a parent. By the gods how it stung at her soul! How she hated herself for being such a terrible mother! But even still, as she held and comforted her child, she could not help but feel a glimmer of happiness, of hope. Gods willing, she would survive what was to come, and from there she could change it all for the better. Yes, she would survive, she had to! She would make things right for Elaine, no matter the cost._

_For a long time the two of them remained in the embrace. Aldreda waited patiently for Elaine to stop crying, stroking her head and whispering motherly reassurance. When the tears and sobs ceased to flow, Aldreda gently sat her down beside her, ever looking into her eyes. Elaine's hazel eyes stared back, red from the flow of tears._

"_I don't want you to go again," the girl said morosely, still clinging to her hand._

"_I know…"_

"_Will you be careful?"_

_Aldreda smiled. "Always."_

_Elaine stared at her mother, amazed by her strength and confidence. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, a smile of admiration, and then it was gone. She took a shaky breath, as if preparing to say something more, but then a loud noise echoed from the distance. It was the sound of a trumpet, declaring a signal that everyone knew by heart. It made Elaine jump despite herself, and it shattered the precious moment between them like glass, reminding them of the world that stood beyond the white walls of the tent—the world that would wait for no one, not even a mother and her lonely child._

_Aldreda suppressed a shiver, and showed none of her sudden discomfort to her daughter. She remained strong, certain, becoming an image of fortitude, not for herself but for her frightened child. It was time to leave, that was the trumpet's call. Frond and the others were waiting. _"_I have to go now," she said softly, trying to keep her own fear out of her voice. Elaine sobbed, and quickly embraced her again. This time it was different, a rushed and desperate hug, and neither of them wanted it to stop—if only time could be frozen like the water of a shallow pond. But time waited for no one, and certainly not war and the duties thereof. Aldreda had to reluctantly remove herself from the embrace and get to her feet. Elaine remained sitting on the bed, watching her sadly._

"_Please, don't die…"_

_Aldreda picked up her gear and sword, slinging them over her back with one arm. She turned to face her child, and spoke with every ounce of determination she could muster. _

"_I won't."_

_The elf started towards the door. Her footfalls were silent on the soft ground, but to her they felt like giant stomps on rock, booming and jarring. She knew what she was walking away from, and where she was going, and it haunted her very soul. She was taking a road of no perhaps no return, to the horrid unknown of battle. And what she left behind, in that little tent, was everything that mattered to her in life. She stopped before the door, the immense gravity of the situation washing over her like a tempest. How terrible it was being caught between two worlds, one foot in the grave at all times, alive yet so very dead. But she had no choice. She had to take that chance, one last time, in hopes of saving the very same thing she hated to leave behind. _

_Aldreda could feel Elaine's eyes following her. It made a terrible sadness well up within her, one that came from the finality of the moment. She looked over her shoulder, just barely holding back her tears._

"_I will return, Elaine. This is the last time I leave you like this. I will never leave you again, I promise."_

_Elaine nodded and sobbed her faith in her mother's words. Aldreda smiled one last time, all of her love personified in that expression, though not to its full justice._

"_This is not goodbye…"_

_Then she turned around and took the final step, leaving the tent completely, leaving her dear Elaine. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her entire life, all the years of fighting and horror utterly infinitesimal compared to having to tear herself away from the one she loved. Now in the open she stood, once more in the world that demanded her everything for the greater good. The sun touched her with its warmth, and the wind gently brushed against her skin. She felt neither of these things. All she felt was the fleeting warmth in her heart begin to fade, the motherly love draining to be replaced by her warrior's coldness. And above it all, like a frigid wind from the north, was the terrible feeling that she had made a promise she couldn't keep. With it plaguing her mind, the elf started towards the staging ground, her eyes glimmering as tears welled up and overflowed, like the purest of water from a well._

* * *

Aldreda Holen opened her eyes, tears glistening before their luminous hazel, tears that glowed crimson by the light of the fires that burned nearby. The memory had taken her away on a journey of bitter, sorrowful reminder—of what she had lost, and what she still had to lose. It had felt like a long time, but in reality it was but seconds, her perception of the fleeting moment drawn out by the emotional weight of it all and, to her great discomfort, the notion that it was the last time she would have to reminisce. Now she stood amidst the chaos of the retreat, facing the enemy while most ran for their lives. Smoke swirled in the air, accompanied by glowing embers that danced on the wind, and the smell—the horrid smell!—was that of death and burning. The sound of her retreating comrades was drowned out by that of the charging humans, their collective roar like a continuous clap of thunder. The very earth shook, she could feel it beneath her boots. It was a terrible thing, standing before such odds.

A faithful few stood with her, all of their own volition, and they were greatly outnumbered. But it did not matter, for they could not achieve victory anyway. Their aim was to help the others escape, to save as many as they could—that was their victory. Aldreda steadied her breathing, ignoring the stench in the air and the filth that covered her. Her sword was filthy and dulled from combat, and after giving it a glance she knew she could not wield it effectively. Without a word she let it fall to the ground, and reached for another sword of the same make, the one she had kept on her person since a fateful day in her past. She put her hand on its grip and unsheathed it with a metallic ring, and then held if before her. Its edge gleamed readily, and it was perfectly clean, well-cared for like the precious item it was. This was her late husband's sword, taken from his dead hands on a fateful night. Now she wielded it again, before that same enemy, on an occasion of comparable madness. She gripped it with both hands, feeling its weight and remembering the one who had held it before her. _Let us do this together, one last time…_

Aldreda looked ahead, into the haze that distorted the incoming humans. Most of the fairies were past them by now, but the humans were hot on their heels, throwing spears and slashing with their swords in a wild frenzy. Arrows screamed overhead, landing with sharp cracks against the shields of those standing by her, or with sickening impacts as they found the backs of running fairies. These humans were mostly fresh warriors, reinforcements who had not fought yet. The fairies, on the other hand, were all exhausted. If nothing was done, the humans would overtake the fairies and slaughter them all. And that was why Aldreda, along with two-hundred brave souls, stood in their path. They presented a thin barrier, easy to overwhelm, but they had no intention of waiting for the enemy to ram into them. No, Aldreda never liked to wait for such doom. She preferred to unleash it upon them first.

The elven commander had steadied herself by now, her mind hardened and her face set in a solid expression. Her eyes glinted with calculation, and a vicious glare furrowed her brow. There was a part of herself, deep within, that was screaming for her to run away, to turn tail and flee with the others. It wanted to live by cowardice, for no other reason than to be able to see Elaine again. It was a selfish desire, and she ignored it. Running would either shame her or get her an arrow in the back, and neither were what she wanted her daughter to see of her. She had her duty, her oath to the People, to uphold. Breaking that sacred promise, and forsaking those who put their lives in her hands, was the last thing she would do. And so, without letting her fear compromise her courage, she faced the enemy. One leg was put behind the other in preparation for a mad dash, and her sword—the only piece of her beloved husband that remained above the earth—pointed ahead. Everyone around her did the same, and upon her word they let out a wave of arrows, fire balls, and spears. The projectiles flew into the haze, ripping into the charging mass of distorted forms. Many fell, and others tripped over them in the confusion. Another volley was fired, and another, and then, with an utterly fearless expression, Aldreda yelled above the din.

"Charge!"

As one last fusillade of projectiles was sent into the humans, two-hundred fairy volunteers swallowed their fear and uncertainty and surged forward as one. Weapons and armor glinted, boots pounded the earth, and cries filled the air. Aldreda set the best example, leading them whilst bellowing with a voice so strong, so determined, that it stood out above all else. Their charge was so sudden and so reckless that even the humans did not anticipate it. The mass of confused men before them, having been decimated by the barrage, was taken completely by surprise by the attack, and before they could reform their ranks, they were hit—very, very hard.

Aldreda was the first to reach the humans, and the first to sink her blade into one. The weapon was smooth in its passage, and perfect in its effect. Blood flew, bodies fell, and Aldreda thrived in a moment of pure and unrivaled killing. All of her energy, all of her mind, all of her senses, and all of her very soul was channeled into her actions, such was her passion, such was her resolve. Adrenaline pumped through her, thrilling and disorienting at the same time. Like lightning she moved, her weapon flashing like bolts from a sky as it sped from one opponent to the next. It was a demanding chaos she was in, but she did not falter. Her eyes, wide and filled with spirit, swiftly took in the ever changing environment, never missing an attacker or a glint of incoming steel. In truth, this was the culmination of her skill as a warrior, for not even at the beginning of the battle had she fought this way. It was as if she had become possessed by a deity of war.

In the span of one minute Aldreda had slayed twenty-two men, and her comrades combined had killed over three hundred. Their ferocity and skill startled the humans, and for a minute there was almost no challenge, but then the men remembered the reality of the situation—that these few fairies were nothing but a brave rearguard for their cowardly comrades. Drunk with thoughts of killing and victory, the humans surged forward again, countless in number and unrivaled in blind determination. At the same time Aldreda and half of her warriors charged at them, seeking to break their momentum. The two forces clashed with horrendous noise, and both sides lost every shred of order they had maintained. Absolute chaos ensued, the entire area around the escape route turning into a maddening melee. Blades clashed with such random frequency that the air was filled with a deafening symphony of metallic rings and bangs. Screams and grunts rose as well, varying in intensity but all bespeaking agony, hatred, and darkness of heart.

_You will not kill me, not this day... _Aldreda blocked a heavy slash from an attacker, letting it deflect from her blade while backing up to escape a subsequently blow. _You cannot kill me, none of you can! _She dodged and threw herself forward, blade extended at the man's chest. It sank through armor and into yielding flesh and stubborn bone, bringing death quickly. Aldreda pulled her blade back just in time to move away from yet another attacker, who came from the side. She swiftly slashed his legs out from under him, and went on to another. _I will not die here. I refuse to!_

Around her the chaos picked up speed and multiplied in intensity. Elves like her attacked with swords, dwarfs with their ingenuity, demons with their heavy blades and shields, sprites from above, centaurs in devastating charges and sweeping of spears, goblins with fire and steel, and gnomes with marked determination. The humans countered with all sorts of weapons and tools, but all with the same primal fury and impressive brutality. Aldreda could see all the death around her, as humans and fairies died by the dozens, but she was too focused to feel anything but the burning sensation of willpower that carried her through the madness. She continued deeper into the fray, finding more and more humans and less and less allies before her. The odds mounted like levels in a building, higher and more difficult to surpass, but she was undeterred. She took on multiple opponents at once almost the whole time, and did not get struck once. To all those around her, she seemed unstoppable, untouchable! It encouraged her comrades and infuriated her enemies—the greatness of a hero, the terror of a monster.

Aldreda was so impassioned that she almost went too far into the human ranks, but thankfully she stopped herself. Backing up, she stuck with her friends, fighting side by side with those who bore the same courage as her. They were many at first, and she felt a wonderful feeling of connection with them—truly, there were few bonds greater than that between people who stood by one another during such trials. They had her back, she had theirs. It filled her with pride.

But for every moment that passed, there were less and less of those wonderful friends around her, those brothers and sisters in arms. Their valiant cries grew fewer and further in between, their presence thinner, and their effect smaller. They accumulated on the bloodstained earth, struck down by foes and doomed to die alone amidst the chaos. Aldreda gritted her teeth as this happened, feeling a pang of pain for every comrade that disappeared from her view. The time would come when she would be the only one left. She would be alone.

The humans had no such problem. For every man they lost, ten would gladly take his place, and in their bloodlust they were far less affected by the loss of their kin. They filled every gap that was made, and advanced with every fairy they struck down. It did not take long for them to regain their momentum, and with it they pushed the fairies back towards the gap in the brushfire. Frond and the others were still withdrawing, and judging by the lack of swift progress, they were forced to fight against small groups of humans who had remained outside. This made it clear as ever that they needed time, because if the humans broke through and trapped the fairies inside the gap in the woods, they could slaughter them at their leisure. Aldreda refused to let that happen.

By some hidden well of strength and charisma Aldreda rallied the few that remained with her, and made a reckless but valiant counterattack. It had far less impact than the first one, but it still slowed the humans down, and in turn bought Frond some precious time. Time had become the most valuable resource in the world.

"Courage my friends!" Aldreda yelled as she fought. "Our comrades will soon be free, and we will be out of this madness! Fight on!"

Everyone did so, despite mounting casualties and waning strength. It was amazing, wondrous, what a selfless heart and a determined mind could accomplish. Truly, these few were the greatest of the People, greater than kings in the measure of their hearts. How terrible it was that they all had to die for the rest, but such was sacrifice and the definition of heroism.

Aldreda kept fighting as everyone else began to fall around her. She could not stop, not so soon. Only a glance confirmed that the others were still making their way out into the field beyond the brushfires, their progress steady but not as fast as she had hoped. A few minutes, that's all they needed. She could buy that for them, but at what price? It was not something she could think of, not in that moment, but truly any onlooker would wonder.

"Come on, keep fighting!" she yelled, trying to encourage what few of them remained. They were being backed up into the opening itself, which acted as a bottleneck for them. The humans came at them fewer at once because of this, though the odds were still horrendous. Aldreda tried to spearhead another charge, but this time it failed completely, because the humans anticipated it and erected a bristling shield wall at the last second. The fairies were torn apart, and a barrage of arrows from above felled those who managed to avoid the spearheads of the human warriors. Aldreda had thrown herself against the shield wall, and actually toppled a few men with the force of her strike, but when she was thrown back and barely avoided a fatal blow, she realized that she was almost alone. So few remained, and they were getting overwhelmed.

_No… _Aldreda could see so many dead before her, all around her. So many had died, and yet she remained; she always seemed to be the last one, just like when she had lost her husband. With great determination she continued to fight, but it was not without internal despair. That sadness soon boiled into hatred and anger, and with the very fate of all those behind at stake, she threw herself at the humans with a monstrous scream and the countenance of a devil. It terrified those close to her, and gave her an edge that she mercilessly exploited. She killed and killed, a wicked grin stretched across her face in a crooked split that showed barred teeth. Blood covered her, and her blade, previously clean and well-maintained, was filthy and covered in scratches and nicks. At that moment she sacrificed every shred of decency she had, and became a monster for the sake of her people, and for the sake of her own survival. Her limits meant nothing against her fury and madness, and her waning strength was ignored, as if she had discovered another well of power within her. It was impossible, what she did, but she pulled it off with flying, terrifying colors. It brought so many to their knees in death before her, and without shame or hesitation she walked over them to kill more.

Even still, all things had an end, even the bottomless tenacity of the elven commander. It came suddenly, after she had sliced through three humans in rapid succession. It came in the form of a warhammer, sweeping from beside her through a throng of struggling warriors. She glanced and saw it at the last second, and then felt her world turn upside down as it struck her in the side, bending her and sending her flying. She hit the ground painfully, and for a moment she thought she was dead. It sure felt like it, for the pain was so great. She looked up, through blurred vision, to see the sun hidden behind the haze of smoke and dust, its brilliance faded a little, making it seem even more distant than it was. The shapes of humans loomed over her, and then, as if by the intervention of the gods, her vision cleared and her mind snapped into focus. A blade was coming down, intent on taking her head, and by a hair's breadth she avoided it. The blade sank into the earth, and she shot up with her own and killed the attacker.

_That was too close… _She breathed heavily, her side aching from the blow. A quick glance and a little calculation confirmed that her armor had taken the worst of it. Her magic, what little remained, healed the rest. There was no time to relax, however, because the moment she righted herself she was set upon by more humans. This time there were no fairies around to help her. This time she was alone, the only thing between the humans and their prey, and if nothing was done they would simply go around her. She lashed out with all of her strength, dashing a human across the face, another on the neck, and yet another in the chest. She stabbed a man in the gut, and swept the blade out on an angle, tearing his intestines out. She picked up a discarded spear and threw it, sending it clean through one man and into another. She punched with her free hand, kicked knees in and even used her teeth in tight situations. There was nothing she would not do at this point. Survival was paramount.

For all of her effort, she still could not hold them back. Dozens were starting to rush around her on both sides, meeting sparse resistance from whatever few fairies remained further back. It made her growl with black fury, and she almost gave chase. But then, in a moment of clarity, she saw something through the crowd of men coming at her. She saw a man she despised more than all of the rest combined, the man who had orchestrated so much pain for the People and even the tragic death of her beloved partner. It was General Acaed Sargon.

The human general was advancing with his men, his imposing figure leading them like the greatest of banners. His armor was scratched and worn, and his sword was covered with a layer of fairy blood. And his face, despite all of the horror around him, was set in an unassailable look of heartless focus. Seeing all of these things combined in that man, along with what she knew of him, made her fury double in an instant. She was suddenly overwhelmed by it, consumed by it. Yet there remained a rational thought, a crystalline notion, that tempered her fury. She knew what she had to do.

With fifty men between her and Sargon, and everywhere else locked in terrible chaos, Aldreda was against monstrous odds. Yet she did not waver. She burst into action. Her sword glinted and her eyes blazed, and with an outpouring of strength and determination she charged. The humans rushed to meet her, but could not prepare themselves for her swiftness or her brutal efficiency. The elf moved like the wind, fast and intangible, untouchable. She dodged and jumped, rolled and slid, blocked and stabbed, slashed and kicked—all the way through fifty human warriors in a matter of seconds, a feat of extraordinary measure, impossible yet done. It took her right towards Sargon, and though noise and stench filled her ears and nose, her eyes remained locked on him, wide and condemning. She screamed, louder and more ferociously than she had ever screamed in her life, and emerged from the throng of men with her sword arcing through the air. Time moved slow, yet everything was happening so fast. Before Sargon she flew, vaulting towards him in a moment of reckless fury, and in that moment he looked at her, his cold eyes betraying a glimmer of surprise, and then, pleasure. She brought her blade down, but there was another glint of steel, and then a resounding clash. Sparks flew, fleeting and bright, and metal grated on metal. Aldreda's flight stopped then and there, and by the time she realized that Sargon had blocked her the man was already swinging. His blade pushed her back, sending her flying ten meters. She flew and hit the ground with a roll, coming up with her sword ready. It was just in time, as Sarong rushed at her with his sword pointed. He nearly impaled her, but she stepped aside, and at the same time she lashed out with her sword. Her attack almost touched her opponent, but he was fast—so impossibly fast for his size—and with grace he whirled around to swat the flat of her blade aside with the back of his gloved hand. Then he struck again, slashing at her midsection. She jumped back, hearing the blade sweep before her and feeling the wind of its passage. A few of her hairs danced in the air before her, sliced by the passing blade. Without pause she stepped back, until there were a few meters between them. A single rivulet of blood was dripping from her forehead, and then she realized that Sargon's blade had cut her—even a shallow cut from a blade contaminated with animal fat would be her undoing. But she did not feel sickness, nothing at all.

"Just so you know, my blade is not tainted," Sargon said, answering her question.

"How nice of you," Aldreda growled.

They regarded each other warily, the elf with hate and the human with a subtle curiosity. Sargon had his sword at his side, held almost casually, and his eyes studied her as a tactician studies a warzone. She stared back, glaring and unafraid.

Their standoff did not go unnoticed, in fact every human within a hundred meters heard about it in less than five seconds. In moments the human warriors shifted their focus, intent on protecting their leader from the dreadfully skilled elven commander. Shouts and footfalls filled the air, but before anyone could lay a hand on Aldreda, General Sargon spoke loudly above it all.

"No one is to touch her! This fight is between us leaders of men and fairy!"

The human warriors came to a halt, astonished but heeding the man's word. Indeed, what the general said was indisputable, and the line he just drew was sacred to all. No one dared question him. Aldreda glanced around guardedly, doing her best to keep her mind sharp and her panic at bay. Countless humans surrounded them, and though they left a wide circle for the two combatants, they were nevertheless a force that could be upon her in seconds with unbeatable might. She was trapped, unless several thousand bloodthirsty men was not something to worry about. The realization sent a lance of doubt and fear through her mind, one that was thrown by the deepest concern of hers—her daughter, and the promise she had made. Now it seemed that the whole world stood between her and that promise, between her and her dear child. It was terrifying.

Even still, she had done this for a reason. The humans around her had stopped, all eyes on her and Sargon. Everyone was enraptured by their duel, unable to look away from it due to its novelty and the fact that the great General Sargon was fighting the feared elven heroine, Aldreda Holen. It was a fight that history would remember. The circle of men around them was almost wide enough to block entry into the gap, where humans and fairies still fought. It slowed their advance, and given Aldreda was the only fairy left of the rearguard, it was the best she could do. If by a spectacle she could save her friends, then so be it. The only problem was surviving, somehow. She could not bear thinking about it. All that she could think about was the man before her, the fight at hand, and the haunting image of Elaine in her mind's eye.

General Sargon finished studying her with a grunt, and with smooth motions he walked closer to her, his sword still at his side.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Where were we?"

Aldreda growled and attacked before he could get close enough. She moved quickly, using both hands to sweep her sword at the man's legs. He didn't even blink as he brought his own weapon to bear and blocked it. The clash of metal rang in their ears, and the force of the sudden impact shook them. Aldreda ignored the vibrations it sent down her arms and spun around to strike again, this time with one hand on her sword and the other drawing a knife. Sargon blocked her slash, but she threw the small knife simultaneously. The knife flew in a blur, glinting in the air, right towards Sargon's face. The human, unable to bring his sword in his defense, raised his free hand. The knife was stopped a split-second short by the tough leather gauntlet that covered his forearm, which was pierced to the point that it drew blood. Sargon didn't flinch, and even smiled down at her.

"A close call. Now we have both brushed against Death's cloak on this day."

They split apart, backpedaling until there was some space between them. The humans around them were making a huge ruckus, cheering on their general while cursing the elf. Their spears and shields formed an impenetrable barrier on all sides, one that would kill Aldreda if she was forced into it.

The two opponents circled each other, waiting for an opening. The sounds of battle still filled the air, but they were growing more distant and less intense, meaning that Frond's forces were gaining ground and not too many humans had caught up. Aldreda took heart at this, and focused on keeping Sargon distracted.

The man and fairy crossed blades again, filling the air with the sound of their steel. They moved swiftly and expertly, amazing those who watched with their skill. Neither received any injury during the minute of nonstop fighting, and when they broke away both were sweating freely. Aldreda breathed heavily, while Sargon, not as exhausted as she, breathed almost imperceptibly. His eyes regarded her anew, glinting with thought and betraying esteem.

"You fight well, elf," he said. "You fight with your heart and your soul, from which pours impressive courage. I have never had the pleasure of crossing blades with you before, otherwise I would have remembered it. I know your rank, Commander, but will you grace me with your name?"

The elf eyed the man, glaring constantly. "Aldreda Holen," she rasped between breaths, her voice as hard as her blade.

Sargon nodded appreciatively. "I shall remember it."

The duel resumed with a flash of metal and a scuffling of boots on the earth. Aldreda gritted her teeth as she tried to land a blow on the human general, and cursed under her breath when he evaded each one. Sweat ran down her face, getting in her eyes and forcing her to blink. It mingled with the dried blood that covered her face and neck, making it slick and itchy, another source of minute but vexatious distraction. Her body ached from exertion, her arms and hands having the worst of it, and no matter how hard she breathed it seemed that there was never enough air to propel her past the speed of her opponent. It was clear that she was losing steam, and she would eventually be unable to fight at all. Then she would die for certain.

The thought of this filled her with fear and determination alike, making her forget her exhaustion for the moment. She could not die, not here, not in this hell. She had to survive for Elaine! Yet she was against such incredible odds; they loomed before her like mountains, hulking and impenetrable. Even if she defeated Sargon, what did it matter? There were several thousand men who would be lining up to kill her then. And if he defeated her? Well, that was just as bad. To any rational mind it would appear that there was no favorable outcome for her. It made her sick, bitter, and terribly angry, and soon the sliver of rationality she still possessed was tossed aside and replaced by the mighty fury of a mother fighting for her offspring—for the hope of seeing her child again, if not for only a moment. She could not think of how hopeless the odds were. She had to fight. She had to win. No matter how hopeless things seemed, there was always a way. Always!

Aldreda lashed out again and again, swinging her husband's sword with such ferocity that she appeared possessed. Sargon moved back more and more, blocking and evading, but even in defense he loomed over her like a tower. She screamed, cursing him and all of man, feeling her hatred and anger well up within her to drown out all other emotions. It channeled into her actions, making her faster and stronger, and with every step she pressed Sargon towards the surrounding wall of spears and shields. The men there would yield to their leader, but they could not because of all those behind them, blocking their path. Aldreda soon backed him up all the way, until he bumped into a shield, and then she lunged forward, intent on running him through. He swung at her with his massive sword, but her jump took her right over it; the weapon tore into the earth below, casting a cloud of soil into the air.

"Go to hell you bastard!" Aldreda roared, putting all of her weight into the point of her blade. She directed it right at Sargon's chest. The man was dodging to the side now, but he was not fast enough to avoid the attack. The elf's blade punched into his breastplate, puncturing through the metal with ease and into his flesh, which yielded like butter in comparison. It did not, however, reach his heart as she intended, because his sideways motion had been just enough. Instead she rammed her sword up to the hilt in his right side—below the subclavian artery and a centimeter from the lung, a nonfatal blow that was an extraordinary stroke of luck. Aldreda had thought it otherwise, and with her hate-clouded mind she did not notice until it was too late. She felt a stinging sensation in her side, and then an immense force striking her head. Backwards she flew, letting go of her sword, and the pain was so blinding that all she could perceive was the sun overhead—the sun that looked so hopelessly far away behind the haze of smoke. Then she hit the ground, landing hard on her back and knocking the air from her lungs. Still she stared at the sky, dazed, unthinking and unmoving.

Her senses came back to her slowly at first, but then all at once. She heard the cheer of men around her, and smelt the stench in the air anew. She tried to get up, but her body would not respond to her. That was when she became aware of the gaping wound in her side, where Sargon's dagger had done its work. Her magic swirled around it, trying to heal it, but it would certainly not be enough. She tried to get up, to do _something_, but her strength was gone and she erupted into a fit of coughing instead. Blood came out of her mouth, frothy and bright red. She trembled despite herself.

"You fought well, Aldreda Holen. No one has ever come so close to killing me."

Sargon loomed over her, along with a number of his best men. The general had carefully removed her sword from his shoulder, and held it in his other hand. Blood trickled from the wound, but it was of no concern to him, even if it left his right arm relatively useless. Still, his face was no longer cold. Even he could not shake the terrible feeling of brushing so close with death.

Aldreda felt panic overwhelm her in an instant. She had to do something! She had to get up! But her legs were like lead. In lieu of that, she tried to use her magic, which was waning fast. She tried to use the _Mesmer_, desperately, but the moment she began everyone knew what she was doing, and someone kicked her hard in the gut. Pain shot through her, somehow even more pain than she already felt, and it made her cry out in agony. Tears filled her eyes, and fear filled her heart. Her magic, along with its brilliant blue light, faded a second later, spent on a wound it could not possibly heal.

_This can't be…it… _Aldreda tried to see clearly, but tears impeded her sight. She could see the distorted forms of men all around her, and hear many more as they marched on in pursuit of Frond. They were no longer slowed down. She had done everything she could do. Coughing again, she tried to take comfort in the fact that she had held out for as long as she did, but it did nothing to help. The thought of dying where she lay was unthinkable, a nightmare, and yet precisely that was happening. She was losing blood rapidly, her body already falling into a state of hypovolemic shock. It would not take long.

Of the distorted forms above her, the largest knelt down closer. It was General Sargon. Up close she could see his face clearer, and despite all the pain, sorrow, and fear that filled her mind, she still had the faculty to notice the understanding, and sympathetic, look on his face.

"What you did," he said quietly. "It bought them time, if not just enough to escape complete entrapment. Your friends are not out of danger yet, but they have a fighting chance, thanks to you." With a pause he knelt closer. "You did not fail. Your death is not meaningless." He was holding her sword—her departed love's sword—and he placed it down beside her, in her twitching, useless hand. "This is not mine to hold…"

Aldreda felt the weapon in her hand, but she could not grip it, let alone bring it to bear. Still, it was a good feeling, having it there; a comfort that was hers alone. It did a lot to ease the pain within her heart and soul, a pain which was far greater than the physical agony that afflicted her body. She did not accept her fate, she could not. It was not her choosing, not her desired time, but such was life—giving and taking away in unequal measure. She hated that it had to be that way, only because of Elaine. Oh how she wanted to be in that place far away from there, where her child was waiting for her! How she wanted to hear her voice again, its sound so sweet and innocent! How she wanted to see her face, and look into her familiar eyes! And to feel her embrace, that mutual comfort that could quell even the greatest of fears! It brought more tears to her eyes, tears not born of pain but of love. There was so much she wanted to live for, and she wanted to live for Elaine more than anything. It was everything to her, a dying mother. Everything!

Yet despite how passionate she felt about it, there was no changing course. Like driftwood in a rapid, she had no means of helping herself, her fate dependent upon the whims of the current. And she knew, all so very well, where that current was taking her. A warrior like her, who had walked alongside Death for so many years, knew the sound of his knock, and heard it louder than anyone else. Death, the patient and silent companion of the living, had finally come for her—to take her hand, to take her away. Staring up at the sky, through the clearing haze, Aldreda could feel its chill; its welcoming numbness. It came over her as she stared into the endless reaches of the wondrously blue firmament. The sun returned her gaze, warming her face and chasing away the chill for just a moment. Her hazel eyes glittered, so brilliant in that final outpouring of life, and then they began to close.

Aldreda felt nothing at all as the ground beneath her gave way, nor as she fell into the pit that had opened. She did not feel the hands of several dwarfs as they grabbed her, nor did she see them—she saw the sun, somehow even when it had disappeared. It remained with her, like the greatest of friends.

"Don't worry Commander!" one of the dwarfs said to her deaf ears. "Frond refused to leave you behind. He sent us to rescue you!"

Aldreda did not hear them. Instead, she heard the sound of laughter. It was Elaine's laughter, so bright and uplifting, just like the sun she saw before her. It made her smile. It made her spirit sing.

"Keep fighting it Aldreda!" the dwarf said as the others carried her through the tunnel. "Don't give up! Hold on just a little longer!"

Aldreda was fighting nothing. She welcomed the sound of Elaine's laughter, the wonder of that simple song of joy. She opened her heart to the warmth around her, to the light that shone from above, and within it she saw her dear child, smiling at her like never before. What a wonderful smile she had! What a beautiful child she had been blessed with! It filled her with happiness and sadness alike, and as she was carried through the darkness of the tunnel, she reached towards the glow of her daughter; the beacon that called every fiber of her being, every thread of her soul. Elaine reached out to her as well, so real despite the fact that it was all illusion, all a dream. It was real to her, and when their hands touched, it was everything. Aldreda smiled again, breathed one last time, and with a final glimmer in her hazel eyes, whispered the key to her happiness.

"Elaine…"


	8. Passing

**North of Taillte**

A fair wind danced over the countryside, cool and gentle in the summer afternoon, its touch swaying the grass of the fields and rippling the transparent surface of ponds and streams. Upon this invisible force, so light and free, flew flower petals and discarded leaves, their myriad of colors standing out against the endless blue of the clear sky. The sun, so constant on such a day, glowed brilliantly overhead, its warmth falling on all things without preference, without judgment, as impartial and kind as the wisest of elders. Birds sang from trees and bushes, their song intermittent but never tired. All seemed well with the world, all seemed so pure and alive. Yet great tragedy could occur in any time and place, in the darkness and in the light, in decay and endless beauty. Nature lived apart from it, unfettered by the sorrows of man and fairy, and so on a day of great tragedy, the world was bright and cheerful.

Qwan looked to the sky as a flock of birds flitted overhead. He watched them as they flew, so free and content, until they faded into the distance, over the trees and meadows and out of sight. Gone they were, just like so much else. The elder warlock looked down again, at the ground before him, which was laden with grass and wildflowers. He stared at it, but he did not see its beauty, nor did any of its life impart an ounce of happiness within his heart. He felt hollow, emptied of all things but that which kept him alive. He stared, his gaze distant and his eyes shimmering with sorrowful thoughts, and ignored all the world as if it did not matter. Truly, what had had meaning before was irrelevant at that moment to him. So much had lost its allure, the color of life becoming a motley grey. After all that had happened, he felt disconnected from everything, cut off and left to rot, alone. But it was not in self-pity that he wallowed. It was not about him anymore. It was about another.

Three days had passed since the battle at Taillte. It had been three days of flight and dread, rife with fear and madness, seemingly endless until it came to an abrupt halt. The details were vivid to him, clear as crystal as he sat staring at the ground, and within his mind they played over and over, a spectacle of horror and loss that chipped away at his very soul. He would never forget what had happened, and it would never lose its sting. Not in a billion years would he escape it.

He was alive at least, for whatever that counted. After he had used his magic to open a path for the retreat, he had been left nearly powerless to do anything else. He had been dragged through the forest alongside the others, like a maimed person, and it had felt utterly terrible. How he despised that feeling of helplessness! How he wished he could have done more! But he hadn't, and it was not his fault. He had used all of his strength, and had accomplished much. It just wasn't enough. The greatest of people could put forth their all, make the greatest effort the world has ever seen, commit no mistakes, and yet still lose. That was not failure, nor was it weakness—it was just how life was.

Frond and his retreating forces had not been free the moment they left the forest. In fact, the humans had been waiting for them. It was a smaller detachment of humans, perhaps five-hundred or so warriors, but they were a determined bunch and attacked without hesitation. It had been enough to stop their retreat for several minutes, blocking them inside the forest path between the two human forces. The only reason they had survived was because Sargon's forces were not able to sweep in from behind and crush them, which they could have easily done had Aldreda and her volunteers not been in the way. _Aldreda… _That name echoed in his mind and sent an icy chill through his heart. She had done the impossible back there, taking on incredible odds and holding out long enough for Frond's forces to break through the other humans. And she had done so on her own for half the time, fighting Sargon himself in the fiery hell of the battlefield. It was one of the greatest shows of courage and strength the world had ever seen, and it left countless people—human and fairy—at a loss for words. Truly, the notion of a hero was personified in that wondrous elf, perfect in every way, complete and pure. There was no greater fairy in Qwan's mind. Not even Frond himself measured up to Aldreda's character, and no one ever would, the warlock was certain of that.

Qwan shook his head a little, still staring into the nothingness of his memory. After they had broken free of the humans, the fairies had fled as fast as they could, fighting and running at intervals when necessary. The retreat had lasted several days, and had claimed many more lives. Only at the end of the second day could they rest easy, having put a fair distance between them and the human armies. None of that would have happened had Aldreda not taken it upon herself to face the humans for the sake of the others. Had it not been for her courage, they all would have died at Taillte. Now many of them lived. Now many of them still had hope for another tomorrow, for a family, for a future. But the price had been steep, and for Qwan it was unbearable.

The warlock looked up again, this time to gaze ahead at the beautiful world that loomed before him. He was sitting in the grass by a small, meandering river, whose waters were like crystal. The sound of the creek was soothing and gentle, and its surface glittered wonderfully in the sunlight, as if thousands of little diamonds were beneath its surface. Flowers were everywhere, growing amidst the grass and trees and arrayed in a dreamlike assortment of vibrant colors. Their scent hung in the air, sweet and pleasing, but for some reason all Qwan could smell was the stench of the battlefield. It did not leave him, even though it was gone. His torn mind was playing tricks on him, refusing to let him forget the horrors he had left behind. Still, he ignored it, his eyes locked on the massive oak tree that grew near the river's edge. Its roots stretched out around it like the legs of giants, and its branches reached to the sky as if to touch the stars. It was beautiful, wondrous, and humbling in its enormity and age, as if it had been around to bear witness to the formation of the world. Qwan loved the tree, but on this day it was not his focus, nor would it ever be again.

A few meters away from the tree, amidst the soft grass and bright wildflowers, sat Aldreda's daughter, Elaine. The child was on her knees with her head bowed to observe the earth before her. Her eyes, the same hazel as her mother's, stared vacantly into the depths of some unseen torment. Qwan watched her from afar, and he was filled with sorrow and sympathy for the child. He knew her pain and sadness; he felt it was his own. How could he not feel the same way, after losing such a friend? He felt as though he had lost a part of himself, an irreplaceable piece of his very soul. He had, in fact, for what was a person without those he loved? Those one loved made up the structure of the heart, and gave meaning to the breaths one took. Without love, without that bond between friends and family alike, there could be no life worth living. For Qwan, the bond was severed by war and death, taken away by the harsh reality of the world he lived in. It left him broken up inside, torn apart and hopelessly lost. There was nothing that could console him, and nothing that could console the child before him. Aldreda was dead. She was gone forever.

It had been so close, the line between her death and her survival. She had been saved by a group of dwarfs, but had died on the way to the others. Had she held on for a few more minutes, then perhaps Qwan could have healed her. But that was not to be, and it was set in stone. Instead, she had been carried from the earth by the dwarfs, who had looked broken and without hope. She was dead before the others, before Frond and Qwan and all those who had put their faith in her. It had been too much for some, certainly too much for Qwan. The old warlock had nearly charged back into the human hordes, such was his fury and sorrow. The only reason he didn't was because Aldreda had died so that he could escape. It would have been a disgrace to throw her costly gift away. What a cost it had come at indeed!

And so, through the whole retreat they carried her body, until they could lay it to rest in the lands that were still untouched by the humans. It had been a short ceremony, but many had attended, in fact most of the surviving warriors and all of the officers. Frond had been there, alongside Qwan, and between them they had kept Elaine. That poor child had been so broken by the realization that her mother was dead. Her tears had never stopped flowing, and her sobs were loud and many. Everyone had paid their respects, and did their best to console the child, but nothing could dull the sharp edge of the tragedy; nothing could undo the terrible loss that had broken Elaine's heart, and shattered her innocence.

Commander Aldreda Holen had been laid to rest with the highest honors the People could give, and even that was a clear pittance compared to what she was owed. Dressed in a clean uniform and polished armor, and with her husband's sword in her hands, she had been put to rest forever, given unto the earth for her eternal sleep. Even in death she was beautiful, and with her eyes closed and her face cleaned of blood and grime she looked peaceful, as if asleep. And her smile, ever so slight and frozen into place by death, made it look as if she was dreaming of wonderful things—of her daughter and her husband, her two treasures in life. If only such peace and happiness could have been hers. If only her dreams had come true! But they had not, and never would. She was gone, departed as had their forefathers, adrift in the afterlife. Perhaps now she was at peace, perhaps now she could be without the fear of battle and the sight of death; she was beyond all of their reach, and despite all its power, war could not touch her. Nothing could hurt her anymore.

Qwan had remained behind after the funeral had concluded, to remain with Aldreda and also to remain with her broken daughter, who refused to leave. The child sat before the grave, which had been hidden so that the humans could not find it. She had been like that for hours, silent. Her tears had stopped, as had her cries. Like Qwan, she was empty, even her sorrow draining like water. All that was left was numbness. Such a feeling did not belong in a young girl like her, but it was there, and nothing could change that.

Hours passed like this, the two of them silent and lost in their own thoughts about the elf that lay beneath the ground before them. The sun continued to move across the sky, its rays warm and brilliant. Qwan could not help but wonder about the future, about Elaine's future. He had a promise to keep to Aldreda, to take care of the child as best he could. She trusted him with that enormous responsibility, and he hated himself that he had let it transpire. He had told her that she would be there for Elaine, that the war would end and she would have the life she'd wanted for so long. He'd been so sure of it at the time, so confident. Now he was unsure about everything. Uncertainty ruled in the wake of tragedy and defeat.

The warlock's morose thoughts, however understandable, were a waste of time. He knew that there was no time for such brokenness. He was alive, Aldreda had given him that chance, and now he had to use it properly, wring every drop of usefulness out of the future that had been paid for in his friend's blood. She was counting on him, and he could not let her faith in him be a mistake. Looking at Elaine, the warlock steadied himself and pushed aside his inner turmoil, and silently affirmed his newfound duty in life. He had been unable to be with Aldreda in her time of peril, but he would be there for Elaine. He would do everything he could do.

A trumpet sounded in the distance, almost inaudible over the song of birds and the flow of the stream. Qwan knew that time was running out—time was such a fleeting thing at best, and at present it was like a gemstone, priceless and rare. Frond and the others were meeting to decide their final course of action. Most of the People had already been moved belowground via the tunnels, but many still remained above, as did Frond's remaining forces. The humans would be coming as well, and soon. Now was the time to conclude the conflict in the only way that was a feasibility. It was time for Frond to set in stone the withdrawal of the People from the surface. Qwan needed to be there, and Elaine needed to be kept safe. The night would come soon, and the humans with it.

Qwan sighed deeply, glancing at the massive oak tree—the stoic guardian of Aldreda's resting place—and he then got to his feet. His legs were cramped, but he did not slow down to ease his own discomfort. With his footfalls silenced by the grass, he walked up behind Elaine. The girl did not acknowledge him, not even as he knelt down beside her. She was pale, and her face was stained with tears; her eyes shimmered as if ready to spill more. Qwan felt his heart break for the child, but he remained outwardly strong. He had to be strong for her.

"Elaine," he said softly.

The girl breathed out slowly, but did nothing.

Qwan gently put a hand on her shoulder, and found that she was trembling. "Come, child, it is time to go."

"I don't want to go," Elaine croaked, her voice just as broken as her spirit. "I don't want to leave her here, alone. That's all she wanted…to be with me…"

Qwan could not suppress his sorrow and heartbreak. His face became lined with grief, and his eyes glistened. He did his best to keep his voice from trembling. "She is with you, and will be wherever you go."

"No she's not!" Elaine cried, anger and sadness making her voice crack. "She's right here! She will always be here! She's…she's…" She paused, unable to say it, incapable of putting the horrible truth into words. She stuttered until she broke into sobs, tears falling from her eyes anew in glittering streams. Her whole body trembled, as if on the verge of collapsing, and after a few seconds of heartrending sobs she pitched forward, her strength gone from her completely. Qwan was there to grab her, and in his arms he held her. Elaine did not resist. She wrapped her arms around him and wept.

It was a moment that stood still in time for Qwan. So rife with sorrow and loss, the outpouring of a child's broken heart. It left him without words, without thoughts, without anything. As her tears soaked him like rainfall, he found his mind swept clean of everything but that moment. The whole world, the past and the future, disappeared for what felt like an eternity. All that existed was the two of them, and the unforgettable presence of the elf beneath their feet. It was a moment that he would never forget, one that made his heart and soul weep. There was no greater tragedy. There was no greater personification of the cost of war.

For ten minutes Elaine wept, her cries and sobs muffled by Qwan but no less heartrending. He held on to her as if letting go would kill her, and said nothing. There was no consoling the child. All she needed was someone to be there for her, a presence that told her she was not alone in her sorrow. She was so delicate, so broken, and as Qwan held her he dared not think of letting her go. His presence was the only thing keeping the child's mind from shattering completely. They stayed like this even after her tears ran out and her sobs came to an end. She trembled so much that it scared Qwan, made him fear for her health, but he knew that her pain was something that no amount of magic would heal. Only time could dull its agony.

After a while Elaine finally spoke again, and her voice was so feeble and shaky that it was like a final utterance before death. "She promised she would return…That she would never leave me again…"

Qwan felt tears running down his face, and he squeezed the girl gently, silently comforting her.

"Why…" Elaine sobbed, her voice weak and pitiful. "Why did she have to die? Why did she have to leave me…alone…"

"It was not her choosing," Qwan whispered softly.

"It's not fair!" Elaine cried out, loudly in a sudden fit of grief and rage. Again she broke down into tears, and again her sobs filled the air. Trembling and broken, she spoke disjointedly and without any spirit, as if hollowed out and dead. "It's not fair…"

Qwan held her close, and as he did so he looked up to the sky, through the great branches of the oak tree to where the sun shined magnificently. "I know child…" he whispered. "I know…"

* * *

Frond's camp stretched out across an open field, a collection of tents and baggage trains. It was much smaller than the previous ones, due to the fact that the majority of the army had been killed, and the absence of civilians left it startlingly empty. All who remained were the few soldiers who had survived—some two thousand of the initial ten—and they were not to stay for long.

In the center of the camp was where Frond held the final council with his officers, in a large open tent to ward off the heat of the sun. About a hundred fairies were present, the foremost of them being the commanders of the legions—those who had survived. Aldreda, Nephan, Cillian, and Dmitar were not present, and it came as no surprise to anyone there. The death of their beloved commanders was heard far and wide, sorrowful news that traveled far faster than whatever silver linings people could contrive. There was an air of solemnity as everyone gathered, hanging above all like an imperceptible mist, draining and dispiriting. There were whispers and mutterings, but not loud talk and certainly no enthusiasm. Everyone was broken and tired, weathered by war and loss and the hopelessness of their circumstance.

Qwan arrived just in time, walking quickly through the camp despite his weariness. He had been forced to carry Elaine the whole way back, for in her debilitating grief her strength had left her. After leaving her in the satisfactory care of her relatives, he had rushed towards the center of the camp, all the while wondering what Frond would do.

The elven king appeared a moment after the warlock arrived. Frond was no longer dressed in his armor, nor was his sword at his side. Instead he wore simple attire, at least relative to his rank, and he didn't even bother with his crown. His face was lined with worry and anxiety, his movements were slower than usual, and his eyes, once so filled with courage and determination, were a window into the tormented mind of a broken monarch. When he appeared before the gathering of officers he did not bother with any of the formalities or required any reverence on their part; he looked upon them as equals, and with great self-shame. For the king to see his faithful brethren in such a terrible state was a clear sign of his failure to them as their leader. He had taken the recent events just as bad as everyone else, and his enormous responsibilities had amplified the effect. Qwan could tell just by a glance that the old elf would never be the way he had been before, not unless he could forget the past, which was impossible. Frond, it would appear, had lost many years of his life over the last few days; there was a startling amount of grey in his golden hair that had not been present before. Qwan could not help but frown at this. The trials of life's horrors served to hasten the journey to the grave, their weight unnatural and overwhelming. Long and happy lives were rare.

The elder warlock took up his position at the front of the meeting, beside the remaining commanders. He spotted N'zall to his right, who was glowering at everything and absentmindedly scratching the spot where the arrow wound had been. Then he looked to Frond, who had cleared his throat and was about to speak.

"I will not waste any time on this," he finally said, speaking frankly and without his usual eloquence. "We are here, as you all know, to decide whether to protract this war or to withdraw completely. In light of recent events…" He paused, nearly gritting his teeth as he fought back his memories and his bitterness. "In light of recent events, we are left with few options. Our defeat at the hands of the humans was decisive, and at this very moment they continue to march on us. They will not stop until we are dead, or until we disappear from this world. Our choice is whether to let them kill what few of us remain—and grant them that sick pleasure—or to swallow our pride and relinquish this world to them." He stopped to observe everyone's reactions, but received very little apart from grim expressions and sympathetic nods. "As your king, it is my duty to make the decision, but I must include you in it. I cannot bind you with my word. We must be united, whatever path we should choose."

King Frond took a moment to gather himself, as if what he was about to say was beyond his tolerance. In truth, he was quelling his pride and his tempestuous emotions, all in an effort to be as rational as he could. When he was ready he gave everyone his view on the matter.

"It is my firm belief that there is nothing for us here but death. If we continue to fight, we will only lose more people and endure more terrible tragedies, like the loss of our kin at Taillte. The humans will not stop, and they are too numerous to stand against forever. I fear that we have lost this war completely, and that has much to do with my personal failures. It is yet another failure of mine that I see no other choice but one…" He scanned the audience, solemn and weary, and then spoke. "That the People relocate belowground indefinitely."

There was not much of an uproar at the king's thoughts, and if anything people were shocked. Frond had been adamant about keeping the lands of the forefathers, almost fanatical about it, and yet now he was willing to give it all up to survive. Whispers went through the gathering of officers, and many shifted uncomfortably. A select few, chiefly the demons, were furious, but they held their tongues.

"What say you, my friends?" Frond said, making it clear that they could speak freely.

Most of the fairies agreed on the spot, albeit halfheartedly. They hated the idea of moving below the surface, but they also had families and lives to return to, and hopes for the future. They could have none of that if they kept fighting, because further conflict was almost certain death. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but in a time like this, there were no good outcomes, only varying levels of undesirable. If it meant survival, it was on the better end of that gross spectrum.

However, even though most of the fairies were thinking along these lines, there were a few who openly protested. Naturally they were the hardline officers, and the leader of their collective discontent was Commander N'zall Bludyn. The demon growled barbarically before he spoke, his teeth barred and his eyes smoldering with anger.

"With all due respect, My Lord, you are suggesting that we cower before these humans? That we give them our land and run away to live beneath rocks?! You're telling me that us demons, who area proud and strong people, are to abandon Hybras, which has been our home for tens of thousands of years? Give it all up to those hominid shitheads, who will desecrate all that our forefathers worked to achieve?!" N'zall shook his head, nearly trembling with rage and frustration. "No, I will not stoop to such a level. I will not turn tail and run like the rest of you! None of us demons will!"

N'zall's words were met with approval by all the other demons present. They growled and nodded, beat their chests and gnashed their teeth, all a clear sign that they would rather die than follow Frond. The elven king watched with a grim expression, and then spoke to N'zall.

"Then what will you do, N'zall? What is a better course of action than mine?"

"We will fight!" the demon shouted, shaking his fist in the air as if to slam it down on a skull. "We will protect Hybras, even if we must do so down to every last one of us! Either we will win, or we will fall with swords in our hands and the sky above us—not under rock and in darkness, but in _our_ world."

Frond nodded slightly, a deep frown on his face. "And what if I ask you to reconsider?"

The demon took a few steps forward, and pointed impudently at the king with a clawed finger. "I would tell you to shove your shiny crown up your ass! I will not follow the lead of a defeatist fool!"

"What you say is treasonous!" Qwan interjected, glaring at the demon commander.

"And so what if it is?" N'zall retorted, stepping towards the warlock. "What are you going to do? Kill every demon here? Go to war with us while the humans enjoy the show?" He spat on the earth, and muttered an oath. "No, you can't. The old ways are over, dead and gone with our kingdom! Frond has not the power nor the proper judgment to rule us all as he pleases."

"By parity of reason, neither does a bloodthirsty lunatic," Qwan said coolly.

N'zall cursed him, so angry that his hand went to his hip to grab his sword. He did not, however, because he was quick to realize that Qwan's magic would make short work of him. Instead he simmered and tried to make a response, but not before Frond interrupted.

"That is enough!" the king yelled, his anger surfacing and making his countenance foreboding. He just as quickly cooled down, and upon having N'zall's attention he spoke firmly. "But you are right, I will not stop you. There is no place for strife between our kinds. I only wish that we could be unified."

"Not anymore," the demon rasped, glancing spitefully at Qwan before continuing. "So let's settle this now. Me and my demons are no longer under your rule, that is what we have decided. We will carve our own path, choose our own fate, and live or die by it." He glanced around at the other fairies, a derisive look on his face. "As for the rest of you, you can follow your delusional king to an early grave. Bury yourselves beneath the earth like the worthless shit that you are!"

With that derisive statement hanging in the air, the demon commander turned around and stormed through the crowd, not even bothering to hear what Frond had to say. His subordinates followed him wordlessly and with countenances of comparable acrimony, leaving not a single demon behind part from Qwan. When they had disappeared into the camp, King Frond sighed and shook his head, muttering something morose. Then he put his attention on those who still remained loyal to him, and did his best to get on with the matter. It was a quick finish, brisk and to the point, and everyone was glad to be done with it. With the matter settled and the marching orders set, the officers dispersed and left Frond alone under the tent. Only Qwan remained, standing to the side with a grim look on his face.

"You know they will all perish," he said.

"Aye," Frond replied. "They are strong and motivated, but they are too few and hopelessly reckless. If they try to hold their own against the humans, they will fall."

"We cannot let them do this!" the warlock urged.

Frond shook his head. "It is their choice. I am not the master of their fate, never was really." He paused and noted Qwan's expression, and put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "That is not to say that nothing can be done. Not all of the demons think like N'zall does, and most do not grasp the odds they are up against. When the time comes that they see things as they are, they will come around. This is my hope at least."

Qwan frowned. "Even if they do, it may be too late. What if they are trapped? It will be a slaughter."

"The wise among them will act sooner," Frond replied thoughtfully. "And you are a demon as well, my friend, as are some of your warlocks. Your word still carries weight in Hybras, more than mine."

"They are too consumed by their warlike nature," Qwan said bitterly. "They will not listen to a scholar, and especially not a pacifist."

Frond shook his head. "Do not discount your abilities, my friend. They will see things clearly in time, I know they will. The war has been hard on them, terribly hard, and they do not want to have fought for nothing. Their behavior is understandable, even if it is irrational…"

The two of them left the shelter of the tent and emerged into the warm sunlight, and from where they stood they could see the camp stretch out before them. Everyone was in the process of packing up their gear and tents and making ready to march. On one end of the camp were the demons, and they were already way ahead of the others with their preparations to depart. Both Qwan and Frond eyed that part of the camp, watching as its tents were dismantled and its fires doused. After a long moment of silence Frond gave the warlock a sidelong glance.

"They will see," he said confidently—his first truly firm statement all day. "Aye, they will see, Qwan, and I want you to be there to guide them when they do."

Qwan had seen this coming, and therefore did not react severely. In fact, he had considered it himself, for he was a demon after all, and therefore owed his kin his assistance in their time of need. With King Frond asking it of him as well, it was difficult to refuse. There was only one thing that kept him from accepting immediately, and that was Elaine. He had promised to watch over her, to be there for her, and to break that promise was to break his sacred bond with his deceased friend, Aldreda. He refused to let that happen, not while he drew breath. But then there was demonkind, and entire people whose lives depended on him. If he did not help them, N'zall would surely lead them to their doom. And so he had it on a scale: the lives of thousands against a child's future and a promise to a good friend. Both were important to him, extraordinarily so, and for a long moment he could not clear his head enough to decide. But then it became evident that one could possibly wait. Indeed, Elaine would be safe with her relatives for the time being, belowground and away from danger. The demons in Hybras had no such security, and with the humans ever approaching it would not be long until they were attacked. That settled it for the warlock. One last time, he would venture out into the world they had lost, and after that he would keep his promise to Aldreda. _Forgive me, my friend. I must keep you waiting just a little longer. I hope you understand…_

After a minute of sorting his thoughts out, Qwan nodded to his king. That was all the elf needed, and despite his mood and the weariness that filled him, he smiled genuinely.

"Thank you."

"I wish I could do more," the warlock said dejectedly.

"You have done, and will do, more than enough."

Qwan nodded solemnly, incapable of keeping Aldreda from his thoughts. "I will need to bring some of my warlocks, I think six would do."

"You may need them," Frond agreed.

In the distance they could see that the demons were already moving out en masse. At their forefront was N'zall, being his usual mentally unstable self, and behind him followed his underlings. It was evident that no one dared depose him as their leader, though none of the demons seemed intent on the idea anyway. They loved a strong leader, and N'zall was exactly that. If only his strength was not equaled by his lunacy.

Qwan watched the demon forces proceed over the hill in a ragged line, and then turned to Frond once more.

"I must go, my friend."

"Watch over them," Frond said with a faint smile. "I trust you more than anyone, my old friend. I know that you will not fail them. You will save them."

They clasped hands and looked each other in the eye; a parting between two old friends. They had known each other for so long, and had always supported each other. It seemed impossible for anything to separate them, all except for their own free will. Now they parted ways, after hundreds of years, to pursue their great responsibilities. Both knew that they may never meet again.

"Farewell, Qwan," Frond said.

Qwan did his best to smile. "Farewell, Erendael."

**Hill of Taillte**

The smoldering battleground of Taillte was full of carnage, the bodies of warriors and their fallen weapons covering the earth as thick as grass. The forests to both sides no longer existed, burnt out and left as smoking stretches of blackened husks and charred earth. Vultures filled the sky, and dotted the fields of death, all rejoicing in the bloody mess that had replaced the beautiful landscape. It was a terrible sight, as if the apocalypse had swept through the world and left it in its wake, and over it all blazed the unforgiving sun, heating everything and accelerating decomposition.

In the distance, well away from battleground, loomed the enormous camp of the human army, its tents covering the earth and disappearing over the horizon. On the battlefield itself were many humans, searching through the ruins and looting what they could. Others made an effort to find wounded comrades who may still be alive, and some made sure that the fallen fairies were really dead. There was no mercy for any survivors they had found, only a swift jab of a spear or sword. Death was everywhere, and like reapers the humans waded through it, all for their own purposes.

Sizable details of men had been allocated to collect the dead. They did so for their comrades first, leaving the fairies to rot in the meantime. Giant funeral pyres burned amidst the battleground, laden with the dead and billowing black smoke into the air. A terrible stench followed it, but it was not all that different from the smell that hung in the air already.

From a few kilometers away, General Acaed Sargon could see the smoke of the funeral pyres rising to the heavens, black and foreboding. He was sitting in an open tent, his view of the world unimpeded. A large table was before him, laden with maps, tablets, and parchment. He was alone for the time being, but soon all of his commanders would be present to discuss their next move. Hopefully it would be their final move, given that the battle had not turned out exactly as planned. A significant number of fairies managed to escape, including Frond himself, which meant that further resistance was a distinct possibility.

The battle itself had been unlike anything he had ever seen, not in all his years of commanding armies. He was still going over the figures his officers had given him. If their estimates were remotely accurate, Frond's forces had lost almost eighty-percent of their number, around eight-thousand warriors. The humans had fared much worse, sustaining roughly forty-thousand casualties. However, unlike the People, humanity had numbers, and their losses could be quickly recovered via replenishment. Furthermore, Sargon's army still had over a hundred-thousand able warriors at the ready, and most of them were eager to continue the campaign against the People. In the end, in relative terms, the humans had won decisively, and the fairies were in dire straits.

Sargon finished poring over the figures on his desk and then looked into the distance again, once more eyeing the smoke and flame of the pyres. His shoulder still ached from the wound that was below it, and despite all that he had on his mind he could not keep from remembering the fairy commander who had nearly killed him. Aldreda Holen had saved her comrades by sacrificing herself, by taking him on despite the certainty of dying. It was an extraordinary show of character and strength, and he knew he would never forget it, nor lose his respect for that elf. He wondered about her, where she was and whether she had lived. It did not take him long to conclude that she was dead. He had seen the look in her eyes when she lay dying on the ground. Even though the dwarfs had saved her, it was unlikely that they had been able to get her to an able warlock in time. No, it would seem that even her luck ran out. No one was immortal. Everyone's time came, unstoppable and swift.

"I shall drink a toast in your name when this is over, brave elf," the man said quietly, lost in thought. "Never will there be a heart as courageous as yours, Aldreda Holen, never again."

With that private statement the general switched his attention back to the campaign. The maps were before him, detailing the lands they were in. In fact, they were fairy maps stolen from Frond's capital after it fell, and unlike their human counterparts they were exact and flawless. One only had to be able to read gnomish to decipher their secrets, and Sargon had learned years ago. He studied the most complete map carefully, having already marked their position and that of Frond's remaining forces. There were many factors to consider in the advance of such a large army. He was in the middle of charting a route when he was disturbed by one of his officers.

"General, I hope I did not arrive at a bad time," the man said stoically, appearing in front of him.

Sargon shrugged, indicating towards the map. "Not a bad time at all. What is it?"

The officer straightened a little, remembering his place. "Our scouts have just returned from observing Frond's positions. They bear significant news that may aid our advance."

"And that is?"

"Sir, the vast majority of King Frond's army is withdrawing completely. They are heading north in great haste. However, a section of the army broke off and proceed eastward."

The general nodded, placing the news on the map before him as he heard it. After determining the new routes of the enemy, he looked up at the officer. "And this eastward force, what is it composed of?"

"Entirely demons sir. In fact, all of the demons under Frond's command have left with it, including what some of our sources say to be their warlocks."

"I see," Sargon murmured, thinking about the possible reasons for their move. It did not take him long, however, as he already knew where the demons were heading in the direction of. With a thanks he dismissed the officer and wrote down a few details, and then called all of his commanders into the tent. When everyone was gathered and waiting, Sargon rose from his chair and spoke loud enough for all of the two hundred higher-ranking officers to hear.

"We have just recently received word from our scouts about the movement of Frond's forces. Most of his army is heading north in obvious retreat. They are broken, and I assume that they are intent on avoiding further conflict with us. It would seem that Frond has had enough of it, and prefers to hide from us. However…" He indicated somewhere on the map. "All of Frond's remaining demon infantry have broken off from the main army and are traveling east. It is evident that they did not share Frond's opinion on the matter, and are no longer following his command."

"What this means is that the demons are still determined to resist our campaign. Their current direction takes them towards their homeland, which is called _Hybras_. It is an island off the coast, and that is where demonkind resides. They are determined to hold on to their land, even if that means they must fight against our combined might. They are the only faction among the People that still retain land and cities—the rest have disappeared to unknown locations. Therefore, in order to put an end to this war, we must wipe out this resistance."

Everyone seemed keen on the idea, but the matter of Frond was still in the air. "Sir," one of the commanders said respectfully. "What of Frond and his routed army? Is this not the best time to track them down and destroy them?"

"Never underestimate an enemy that is backed into a corner," Sargon replied coolly. "Frond may be defeated and may be opting out of further conflict, but he is not to be taken lightly. If we pursue them, he will fight harder than at Taillte. I think I speak for all of us when I say that I am tired of this war, and desire for all of us to make it home alive. Making unnecessary moves against a defeated foe will only protract this madness, and cost us more lives." He paused, tapping his finger on the island to the east. "The demons, on the other hand, are not defeated. They are tenacious and bloodthirsty, as we all know. It will take total annihilation to bring them down for good, and there is no better time than now, when they are weak and few in number. A decisive victory is what we need. Once they are defeated, no one will be standing in our way. This world will be ours."

Most of the officers nodded or spoke in agreement, and some even grinned at the prospect of seeing the end of the war. Sargon waited until he knew that they would support him—for an army without loyalty to its commander is useless—and then drew himself up to his full height to address them.

"Then our course of action is set. Our blades have direction and purpose this final time. Have your forces prepare to depart, and let there be double rations and ale for tonight. All legions but the fifth and tenth are to take part in this campaign—those two will remain here with the sick and wounded. Are we all clear?"

There was a resounding affirmative from the men, their voices all firm and bereft of uncertainty. It made Sargon smile, and through the pleased grin he spoke determinedly.

"At dawn, we march on Hybras."


	9. Gone

**Hybras**

N'zall's demons, along with Qwan and his warlocks, arrived at Hybras after a few days of hard marching. The island was relatively large, covered with thick forests and wild fields, and dominated by a large mountain near its center. The whole place stood out amidst the endless expanse of the ocean, a dark mass on the horizon that broke the seamless image of undulating waters and cast an air of mystery over it instead; it had always been an isolated place, distant from all others and shrouded in secrecy. The demons were a protective race, and very distrustful of others. It made sense that their homeland be so difficult to reach.

After crossing the mile of ocean that separated the island from the mainland, the exhausted group of demons stepped onto the motherland, onto the earth they were willing to die for, and from there proceeded into the settlement that dominated part of the island. They were welcomed by the rest of demonkind, who were glad to see their warriors return. Such joy, however, was quickly drowned by the realization that victory had not been achieved, and that N'zall's force was all that were left of the thousands that had left to fight in the war. It made the others bitter and angry, filling them with sorrow and hatred alike—the former for their kin, the latter for the humans who had slain them. And as their warlike culture dictated, the demons were very quick to make known their resolve to fight. N'zall had a hand in it of course, going about making a ruckus and demanding that everyone remain true to their forefathers. He was strong and intimidating, and these qualities made him hard to resist. The demon people, so filled with uncertainty by the recent events, were quick to follow his example. They believed that they could succeed through strength alone, and N'zall could lead them in such an endeavor. They were a determined, passionate people, full of love for their homeland and their independence. Very few of them even considered Frond's course of action to go belowground; in fact, none of them gave it as much thought as they would an insignificant breeze. Instead they took up arms—male and female, young and old, able and sick—and began to make preparations for the humans.

Qwan had watched all of this without saying or doing much. Despite Frond's belief in his influence within the demon community, the elder warlock was barely listened to. This was partially due to the fact that N'zall spread his biased account of the battle all over, marking Qwan as a coward and even a traitor to his own kin. There were perhaps a few elders amongst the demons who were sympathetic to Qwan's opinions on the matter, but not a lot could be done to sway the masses or the other powerful figures that had fallen under N'zall's bloodthirsty spell.

And so, biding his time, the warlock watched the rest of his kind prepare for battle, and he had to admit that he was impressed. They were by far the most motivated and determined bunch he had ever seen, willing to do anything to protect their homes. Everyone did their part, no matter who they were, and in only a few days Hybras was as ready as it could be. The shores were guarded by sturdy fortifications and traps to ensnare landing forces, and hidden beneath the water in the shallows were spikes and stones to shatter the wooden undersides of the human ships. Further inland stretched an impressive series of defenses, all occupying strategic locations like ridges, hills, and bridges. Trenches, pitfalls, and other traps protected these key areas, and in every possible nook and cranny were hidden caches of weapons and gear for the defenders. On top of all this was the demon artillery. Hundreds of catapults were positioned in batteries of at least three around the island, armed with a variety of ammunition to suit varying tactical situations. The heaviest concentration of this equipment was near the shoreline, organized to provide interlocking fire and grant no respite to any inbound landing vessels. It was a very mighty show of defensive power.

While the defenses were being built, the rest of the demons worked on preparing for a siege. Fields were harvested and forests were scoured for food, and all of the resulting goods were taken to the center of the island, where the walled settlement could protect it. Other materials, like wood, stone, metal, and leather, were stockpiled for use, and everyone, rich and poor, gave what they could to bolster the effort.

Finally there came the fighting force itself. With N'zall's remaining troops only numbering at four hundred, there was a great need for recruitment. The island's population was just under twenty thousand, and of that number roughly ten-thousand demons could be deemed combat effective—effective meaning capable of holding a sword and shield. The rest were still armed, just in case. They were determined, but hopelessly green, and there was little time to train them. Still, everyone did what they could, and soon Hybras was geared up for war.

A day passed after this, intense and silent as everyone waited about for any sign of the humans. No signs came, and the scouts sent out in swift boats returned with no news about any humans at all. It would appear that Sargon's army was not marching on them, or at least had not arrived yet. This allowed for the demons to take a break, albeit an anxious one, but they were fully prepared for action by nightfall. The evening passed, as did midnight and early morning, and nothing happened. No one came, not a soul, and the only sound was that of the wind and the rolling ocean. Another day progressed in the same way after that, and further anticipation of an imminent human invasion dissipated. Scouts began to report signs of fighting to the north on the mainland, where Frond had retreated. They reported seeing smoke and hearing the distant cacophony of clashing metal and shouts. It made most think that Sargon had gone after Frond instead of them, though even still they remained vigilant.

Everything changed the following day. It started with the sudden upsurge in sickness in the general population; tiredness, vomiting, and delirium. Qwan had spearheaded an investigation into the matter, and had found that the island's main water stores had been tainted by a wide range of contaminants, ranging from drowned rats and decaying fish to dissolves poisons. The demons tasked with guarding the stores had been killed in the night, their bodies hidden in clever ways. It was clear that humans had managed to infiltrate the island, despite all of its defenses. This group of humans made its presence known not too long after, this time in the torching of the grain and produce stores. The fires had been huge, and even Qwan could not put them out in time to save most of the goods. However, this time they caught the perpetrators. It was a small group of ten human warriors, dressed in camouflaging attire and lightly armed, and despite the fact that they were not meant to engage in direct combat, they put up an impressive fight to the death, taking thirty demons with them and wounding another twenty. It was clear that they had been handpicked for the job, not only for their skill but also their willingness to die for their cause.

With this crisis in recent memory, the entire island became highly alert. Patrols were tripled and the warlocks were tasked with helping seek out infiltrators. They found nothing. A few days passed without incident, but with their depleted water stores and dwindling food, the demons were forced to ration everything.

At the end of the second week, after fourteen days of tension and waiting, the attack finally came. It started in the dark of night, when many of the demons were resting. It was a moonless night, and the air was filled with a howling wind, downing out all other sounds and obscuring everything that could not be revealed by torchlight. The sea beyond became a black void, and the waters, roiling and loud, roared like a beast. It was such a dreary night that most thought it impossible for anyone to reach the shore alive, and so many of the defenders too heart in this and took the time to wait out the storm in their fortifications. How terribly mistaken they were.

A group of the most elite warriors General Sargon had under his command was the first to set foot on Hybras. They used small boats to travel two-thirds of the way to the island, using the torchlight of the defenders as a guide, and from there swam through the undulating waters. They wore nothing at all, instead dragging their gear behind them in buoyant packs while they swam, and their skin was painted black to help them blend with the dark surface of the sea. There were maybe a hundred of them, dispersed into groups of ten.

Their purpose was twofold. They would start by reaching the shoreline, where the suitable landing spots were located. From there they would locate as many traps and submerged barriers they could, and mark them with makeshift buoys. Once they had completed this, they proceeded under the cover of darkness into the more rocky sections of the shore, using cliffs and rocks to bypass the main ring of defenses. Upon these cliffs they established pathways, setting spikes and lowering ladders, all without light. Everything they did was under time, and they did so flawlessly, just in time for when the next wave of veteran troops swam to the shore. Using the ladders, all of them—some five hundred—climbed the cliffs and bypassed the beachheads. From there they raced into the darkness, seeking out the lights of the many campfires that the demon defenders had made. They targeted the patrols first, killing them swiftly, and with the howling wind no one could hear whatever sounds they made. Then they proceeded towards the coastal artillery defenses, finding the batteries lightly guarded. Again, they killed whatever demons they crossed, and then they sabotaged the machinery, making it useless. There were some that they could not reach, but that was acceptable. After all, this was only a secondary goal.

With the dawn fast approaching, the humans spread throughout the island and took up positions in whatever hidden places they could find, all while killing whatever vulnerable demons they could. Some of the elite human squads made their way to the center of the island, using the forests for cover. They reached the main settlement with only a few minor incidents, and from there they advanced in small, efficient groups. Their targets were many, and their intent as simple as the slashing of a knife.

* * *

Qwan awoke to the terrible feeling that something was wrong—a sensation deep within that screamed its dark premonitions into his thoughts and shattered his rest. He sat up quickly, so overwhelmed by the feeling that he momentarily forget where he was. Then he glanced about, noting the roar of the wind against the walls and the ominous chill that hung in the air. His room was dark, impenetrably so, and there was no movement—not that any motion could be seen anyway. The warlock quickly used his magic to enhance his vision, and found no problems with his surroundings. Content that he was safe for the moment, he took a calming breath and threw on his cloak, all the while eyeing the door with distrust. The sensation within him kept getting worse, and it warned him of impending danger. He did not need to imagine what that meant.

Cursing under his breath, Qwan started towards the door. He did not get halfway before it slowly opened, as silently as death in sleep, to reveal a number of looming shadows beyond. They were silent and still for a moment, and it was evident that they could not see Qwan in the pitch darkness. There was a grating of metal as a sword was drawn from its scabbard, and a whisper from one of the shadows, and then, all of the sudden, a candle was lit. Its little flame, upright like a dagger and blazing fiercely against the blackness, cast an orange light over everything, revealing both parties and leaving twisted shadows stretched everywhere. The massive shadows, which were humans dressed in dark clothing, were surprised to see Qwan standing a few meters from them. Qwan, on the other hand, was not taken off guard. Before the human assassins could bring their weapons to bear, the warlock struck them with a spell, sending them flying backwards into the wall with such force that they the wall exploded and the men were killed on impact. A great noise filled the air as a result, and it served to raise the alarm to all those still asleep. However, it also made whatever humans there were left act swiftly and without any caution. Qwan could hear struggles erupt throughout the quarters—cries, grunts, and clashes of steel—and his senses told him it was not just an isolated event. It was happening all over Hybras.

Qwan cursed himself as he ran through the hallway. How could he have been so stupid?! Of course he humans would make their move on a night like this! Of course they would find a way! And now, if his dark thoughts were correct, they had infiltrated the island and were carrying out attacks on all of the demons' strategic points. Dammit, why did he and his warlocks decide to rest that night? They had been exhausted from other work, and from healing the sick, but had they been attentive they would have detected the intruders and sounded the alarm before the blood started running! Now it was too late. Too late!

A group of assassins appeared in front of him, wielding swords and daggers. They were in the process of slaughtering a group of waking demons, but then Qwan appeared, magic blazing and eyes filled with anger. He tore them apart with a single spell, sending their heads bouncing down the corridor like watermelons. He only stopped to ensure that the demons would live—those that had not been killed already—before making his way further. He had to make sure that his fellow warlocks were alright. If even one of them perished he would never forgive himself.

He found his other warlocks rather unexpectedly—or, to put is bluntly , they found him. Upon encountering another group of humans, Qwan became locked in a violent struggle, this time because they had jumped him from one of the doors and almost sunk their blades into him. He backpedaled and avoided a deadly stab, and then brought his magic to bear. He began speaking the words of old to bring forth a spell, but before he could do so the humans before him were struck by something from behind, and fell dead at his feet. All of his fellow warlocks were there in the gloom of the hallway, and the foremost of them—the one who had cast the spell—was Qwan's latest apprentice, Qweffor. He was a younger warlock, and had youthful features, but in the shadow and under great stress he looked to have a lot more years under his belt. The warlock stepped towards Qwan, minding the bodies.

"Qwan, thank the gods you are alright!" Qweffor said.

"I was about to say the same thing," Qwan replied honestly, nodding to the others as well.

"What's going on?" his apprentice asked anxiously. "How did the humans get here unnoticed?"

"Our own error, I'm afraid," Qwan said grimly.

Qweffor looked about as the sound of distant shouts and clashing steel echoed down the hall. His brow was furrowed with anger and uncertainty alike. "What shall we do?"

Qwan was already walking down the hallway towards the sounds of fighting. He glanced over his shoulder, meanwhile channeling his magic through his hands to keep it at the ready. "Whatever we can, my friends. Come, they need our help."

The fighting raged well into the morning, with teams of skilled human warriors appearing out of nowhere in multiple locations and setting upon the defenders with merciless efficiency. Fires dotted the island where the attackers set buildings and supply depots ablaze, and in the night it appeared like outbursts of devilish light in a starless void in space. Hybras became a cauldron of chaos for hours, with many of its inhabitants having no idea where to focus their efforts—the human squads appeared from all directions, randomly and with startling speed. In the hours that it took for dawn to come, hundreds of demons were killed and many more wounded, and many of their fortifications and artillery batteries were burned beyond use. Nevertheless, the demons fought ferociously in the dark, and with the help of the warlocks they managed to repel their assaults again and again, until the human forces retreated to the corners of the island. Many demons gave chase, but it was a foolish act. Dawn had come, and there was an even greater threat on the horizon.

With the coming of dawn came a ghostly fog over the sea, one that obscured everything but the crimson morning sky. The sound of the ocean drifted from the otherworldly haze, its waters hidden and speaking to the island like an imperceptible ghost whispering to the living. No one could hear anything but that distant, invisible noise, and for the defenders waiting on the beaches with weapons ready, it was like gazing into another world—a world of the dead, a realm of shadow and fleeting glimpses of the greatest horrors.

The sun rose ponderously from the distance, changing from a glow behind the fog into a blazing orb as it rose above it. With its heat bearing down upon the world, the fog was slowly banished like an evil being from the underworld, dragged into oblivion by the brilliant rays of light from the heavens. And as the fog faded, the sea became visible, its undulating surface taking shape and its endless noise given form. Through this falling veil of vapor, appearing one by one as distance became observable, were the unmistakable hulks of human ships. Their number grew and grew as the haze fell away, from dozens to hundreds, until they dotted the sea up to the horizon. From all directions they came, and they were close at hand. Their passage had been executed under the cover of night, and by the fog they had closed the distance between them and the island. Their sales caught the heavy winds, and their bows tore through the waves, casting spray into the air that glittered in the morning light. And upon them, far brighter and far more frequent, glinted the metal of arms and armor—of men prepared for battle.

For the demons defending the shoreline, it was a dreadful sight. But despite its frightful reality, the demons found courage in their devotion to their homeland, and sounded the alarm for all to hear. Bells rang, drums rolled, and shouts filled the air. Thousands of armed demons rushed to the fortifications and manned the beachheads, intent on stopping the human advance there. The catapults that had not been damaged were loaded and aimed at the approaching fleet, which was just out of range.

N'zall Bludyn, the de-facto leader of the demon people, was among the first on the western shoreline. He wore his spiked armor and bore his best sword, and his face was twisted by a constant look of hatred and bloodlust. He rallied his kin, and when the humans were within range, gave the order to begin the battle.

The catapults unleashed their heavy ammunition upon the large human transports. The large projectiles splashed into the sea and cast up giant spires of water, and the ships that they managed to hit were broken apart like twigs, and their passengers sent to their watery graves in their heavy armor. But there were too many ships, and far too few artillery pieces. In minutes the human fleet had gained ground on all shores, reaching the shallows where the traps were laid. Everyone expected the humans to ram into the unseen obstacles, but the vessels veered smartly around each one, as if they were marked—and they were. Only a handful accidentally got stuck on the obstacles, and even then the men just disembarked to wade through the water. The rest of the ships rammed into the shore, beaching themselves so that the men could enter the fray quickly. And they did, by the thousands.

The battle became a terrible struggle once the humans reached the shore. The demons opened fire with bows and spears from their fortifications, mowing down many of the charging men, and the humans responded in the same way, riddling the defenses with arrows and javelins. Once the humans had amassed enough men on the beaches, they used shields to proceed towards the defenders, marching steadily in boxlike formations. The demons hammered them with arrows to no avail, and the catapults were too busy with the other ships. The humans got close to the fortifications, and then surged forward in a devastating charge. Any gap, any weakness in the defenses, they found and poured through. The demons, led by the insane N'zall, opted to charge rather than wait. And so, with a deafening clash, the armies conducted the madness of total war.

The battle raged for hours, back and forth across the beaches and the lowlands after. The dead covered the earth, and blood stained the white sand until it was almost completely crimson. Smoke filled the air from burning barricades and ignited artillery batteries, and as it rose to the heavens, the vultures high above came in closer to smell their upcoming feast. The only reason the demons held on for so long was because Qwan and his warlocks had spread out to cover as much shoreline as possible; otherwise, the scattered and poorly-trained demons would have been overwhelmed on the first wave. But even with the help of magic, they could not hold the shoreline. The humans overran the fortifications, and the remaining humans that had infiltrated the night before suddenly appeared in larger groups behind the demon line, adding to the chaos.

Qwan and his warlocks did their best to hold the humans back, but their numbers were too great, and the warlocks' strength had been drained from the sleepless night of fighting. They were forced to pull back, as were the demons.

The outer tenth of the island was under human control by noon, and the humans, having gained the shoreline, were amassing for another push. A hundred-thousand men were staging along the shoreline, rearming and preparing for another battle. The demons, on the other hand, had lost half their number, and almost all of their experienced veterans. Their supplies were low and their militia was disorganized, and when compared to the human legions gathering in all directions, it was no contest. It was a dire situation. Qwan knew this more than anyone, and unlike most of the demons, he accepted it for what it was. He did not sugarcoat it either when N'zall and Hybras' elders met to decide their option for defense.

"We cannot hold back the human assault," he said firmly, his words springing from his calculated thoughts on the matter. "We are outnumbered greatly, surrounded, and are running low on the supplies necessary to fight a battle against such a force. If we fight them, if we try to keep Hybras, demonkind will be massacred!"

The warlock's urgent words were countered by N'zall's intimidating growl of a voice.

"Hybras is all we have! We will not abandon it! Besides…" He paused, tilting his head a little to the side and grinning wickedly. "What could you possibly do to change the circumstances? Apart from running away of course."

Qwan frowned a little, his face creased by his anxiety and the sheer volume of thoughts that were rushing through his head. Ever since he had landed on the island he had been considering methods to save not only its residents, but its land as well. He knew without a doubt, based on his observations of the tenacious demon people over the last few days, that they would never abandon Hybras. They would fight to the death, down to every last one of them, but they would never relinquish their homeland to the humans. And the humans, they would never stop trying to take it. As long as a glimmer of fairy resistance remained on the surface, humanity would remain united and continue its brutal campaigns. No matter how hard the demons fought, they would never be able to win such a war. One way or another, Hybras would fall, and the demons would be no more.

For this precise reason Qwan had made a number of plans within the confines of his mind. Most were ridiculous, improbable, and outright insane, but one among them rung true in its method and hypothesis, and represented a viable alternative to fighting a losing battle. With that plan in mind, Qwan faced N'zall and the elders with outward confidence—and inner dread for the possible consequences of what he planned to do. After leaving a great pause in the air, and eyeing all of them, he spoke his complex thoughts in the simplest way possible.

"I propose that we move Hybras to a place where no one can touch it."

Everyone stared at him, and then N'zall almost laughed.

"Move it?" the demon said through a grin. "Are you insane? It's impossible you fool!"

"I am sane, and it is possible," Qwan retorted. "It's a simple matter of lifting Hybras out of time itself. Remove it from the present world completely, temporally isolate it."

"And that can be done with a high probability of success?" one of the elders asked.

Qwan nodded. "With six warlocks alone it would be impossible. However, we have another source of power that will do the rest…" He paused, and gestured towards the mountain in the distance. The volcano had been dormant for hundreds of years, but recently it had shown signs of activity. Lava flowed just beneath its surface, and smoke escaped from many spots, rising to the sky in dark trails that cast shadows over the land. Qwan knew that there was a lot of latent magic there as well, for magic flowed through the earth and gathered in places such as it. He could harness it with a proper spell ring, and with its power he could lift Hybras out of time.

"With the volcano amplifying out magic," he continued, "we will be able to accomplish it. And it will be an effective solution. We keep Hybras—our land, our homes, our heritage—and we also keep our lives. No other option will give us both."

There were murmurs and nods from the elders, and the general opinion—with a few exceptions—was in favor of the warlock's proposal. As this became evident, N'zall, who had been watching with great animosity, burst out in a fit of frustration.

"You can't actually be considering what this cowardly shit is proposing?!" he growled, his words hissing through clenched teeth. "That we flee? That we abandon this world? Keeping Hybras will be nothing but an artificial victory if we leave this world behind!" His hand rested on his blade, its pommel still coated with dried blood. "And to let the humans win, that is the worst thing of all! Any true demon would fight!"

"You are full of zeal, N'zall," one of the elders said calmly. "However, the zeal that makes you strong also clouds your mind. We must think of a future for all out people, and that future must not be one of constant war. Qwan has given us the only way."

"To hell with that!" the demon retorted.

The elders ignored the demon, their previous faith in him gone now that they knew the full extent of the crisis. They looked to Qwan, and gave him their consent. And so it was done.

"You fools!" N'zall declared, pointing at them with a clawed finger. "You are all fools!" He gave Qwan a venomous glare, and then turned around. He stormed away, calling his officers to his side and giving them marching orders. "We will continue to fight the humans. They are coming, and we shall meet them." His hand was constantly touching the pommel of his sword, itching to draw it and kill, but he still had the presence of mind to look somewhat professional before the elders. "I will not stand by and do nothing while these idiots play with their magic!"

Qwan and the others watched him leave, but once he was gone they began their work. The warlocks had to be gathered, and the spell ring planted. Time was needed, and with the human amassing in the distance, there was very little of it.

* * *

And so, after many years of fighting and terrible struggle, Qwan found himself at the end of it, the final leg of an impossible journey. It took him to the mountain of Hybras, so fitting in its looming monstrosity and importance, like the culmination of his years of hard work as a protector of the People. With its billowing smoke and glow of barely restrained magma, the mountain shadowed all like doom personified. The day had passed, and the night was coming. A brilliant sunset blazed on the horizon, painting the whole world an ominous red, and it coupled perfectly with the smoke rising from the volcano and the battlefield that ringed the island itself. On top of the mountain Qwan stood, looking out over the island of Hybras, high above and detached like a god observing its constructions, a witness to the madness of creation. The air was hot and filled with the stench of sulfur, and a great wind blew overhead. On that wind carried the sounds of battle, distant yet pressing, and they played out of sync with the nearly imperceptible shapes of humans and demons waging war in the fields and valleys. The battle was raging fiercely, the humans having made their advance, and every second that passed further drained the lives of demons and the land they held. Observing it all from above, Qwan felt like he was witnessing the end of the world. It was an apocalypse of their own creation.

"All is ready, Qwan," a voice spoke from behind.

It was Qweffor, his apprentice. Besides them there were five more warlocks, gathered in a circle just before the edge of the mountain's crater. Lava and fire churned in the pit not too far away, bubbling from the vents beneath, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Qwan nodded and tore himself away from the frightful view, his attention switching to the spell ring that had been constructed. Indeed, all was ready.

"Then let us begin, my friends," he said over the wind.

They all joined in the ring, seven warlocks of great power and skill, their knowledge and strength combined and coupled with the latent magic in the volcano. They linked hands, creating a seamless channel of magic, and began without any hesitation. Magic immediately began to glow around them, flowing from them like vapor and swirling through the air like a fine mist. It crackled and shined, brilliant and pure, and as it grew and grew Qwan's mind focused on the spell that they were to cast. He calmed his mind, banished his fears, and assumed a serenity that was the perfection of a grandmaster of the arcane. His features, previously contorted with determination, relaxed and went still, and his eyes, glowing bright with magic, closed.

It was time. Now was the time to put an end to it all—to the killing, to the fear, to the sorrow, to the chaos, and to the incredible madness that had torn their lives. With that firm conviction in his heart, Qwan began the incantation for the time-stop spell. The words of power echoed unnaturally in the open air, and boomed with godlike loudness. The other warlocks joined in, one by one, adding their own voices to the flowing, wondrous work of magic. Together they filled the air with the ancient words, which reverberated throughout the island like thunder, making all those who were upon it stop and look to the hellish spire that loomed in the distance. And as the words were spoken, the ring beneath them shined red, and the magic in the air moved to an incomprehensible tune. The earth shook, and the volcano itself trembled like a beast of rage, the magma in its center roiling and spitting as if hell itself waited just beneath. Power—incredible, immense power—flowed from the earth, harnessed by the warlocks, captured by the might of knowledge and concentration.

After several minutes of this process, which grew and grew in intensity, Qwan led the warlocks in channeling the magic throughout the island itself. It shot out from their circle, rising to the sky like a beacon, and after rising hundreds of feet it exploded in all directions. The bluish energy filled the sky, offsetting the crimson glow of the sunset and brightening the world. It flowed down in all directions, like water dispersing over a dome, and once it reached the ground it flashed blindingly. What resulted was magical dome over most of Hybras, slicing into the earth and going deep underground until it was a full sphere to encompass it. This force came directly between the humans and the demons, cutting the former off from the rest of the island. This meant that not all of Hybras was going to be taken, but to take the whole island meant bringing the human legions with it, which was not a good idea. Instead it slammed down before them blocking their way and forcing them back. The human legions, stopped in their advance, suddenly wavered and fell back, terrified of the might of magic. Qwan noted this with satisfaction. With the humans pushed back, they would not be harmed by the spell, and could return to their lands. Qwan wanted this, needed it, because he could not bear the act of war anymore. He was finished with it all, with the killing and the violence. The war was going to end, and both sides could return to their lives. It was for the best.

The next stage began right after this, marked by a crack in the air and a sudden solidification of the magical barrier. The time-stop spell was beginning, like a clock winding up, and with it Hybras would be protected by temporal distortion, hidden in the depths of time. It was at this moment that Qwan felt the finality settle in. Up until that point he had been completely focused on his work, and had not given thought to other matters. Now they came to him, in the image of Aldreda and her daughter. He realized then and there that he may never see the latter again—that he would never be able to fulfill his promise to Aldreda. It almost shattered his concentration, but he gathered himself and swatted the matter aside, bitterly focusing on completing the spell. _One thing at a time…One thing at a time…_

The spell reached its peak a minute later. With a sudden outburst of more magic, the spell sent a wave of light over the land, and filled with air with an invisible force that made all sound mute. For Qwan and his warlocks, it was a nearly overwhelming moment, the power rushing through them so much that they nearly broke under it. But they held on, remaining in their circle, linked to each other in mind, body, and soul. The world around them was unnoticeable to them, their concentration on the spell alone. They did not notice anything, not even the two shadows that were rushing up the mountainside to the east. In ignorance they sat, absorbed by magic and intricate calculation.

Through the noiseless chaos appeared those two shadows, over the edge of the mountain and onto the plateau where the warlocks sat. They were two demons, armed and filled with fury. Their eyes, wide with zealous intent, locked on the warlocks, and they started towards them in a run. N'zall was the first one, and Bludwin, a devout colleague of his, was the second. With their mouths agape in a deadly roar against the magic that surrounded them, they charged at the spell ring, weapons glinting. They had to stop the spell, no matter the cost; their dark hearts and bloodthirsty minds wanted nothing else.

When the two demons were nearly upon the defenseless warlocks, another burst of magic exploded through the air. The whole mountain shook, and cracks formed in the rock, hissing gas and fire and casting up globules of magma. The two demons lost their footing at that moment, and it was a decisive moment at that. Bludwin stumbled forward and fell on his face, and from there rolled into the mouth of the volcano, falling to his death. N'zall, losing his footing and tumbling towards the same fate, made an unsuccessful jab with his blade, and then, through sheer willpower alone, managed to change his trajectory and slam right into Qweffor, who was to Qwan's right. The demon commander and the warlock apprentice were torn away from the ring, and together they fell into the depths of the volcano. At the same time, the spell reached its end, and it was broken at such a critical moment. The air changed, and the magic went mad. Fire and energy roared into the air, and in the distance, near the edges of the sphere, the land began to disappear into a dark void.

Qwan had witnessed all of this with great horror, and at the last moment he realized what had happened. N'zall had broken the spell ring, and now the spell was not only taking Hybras out of time, but out of its dimension. It was not what he had intended—it was a nearly permanent result instead of an easily reversible one. This filled him with dread, but he had no time to dwell on it. The spell ring reacted violently, exploding outward in a shower of rock and energy, and the circle of warlocks was sent flying. They were carried by magic and throw so high that they struck the wall of the barrier. And they passed through it, spat out by the magic as if they were not worthy of being in its presence. All of this happened in a split-second, lightning fast and merciless, and all Qwan could consider was their survival. They would soon be torn apart by the residual effects of the spoiled spell, ripped between two dimensions and utterly destroyed. He could only think of one thing to do to anchor them to the real world. With his hand still on one of the other warlocks, and the others doing the same, he brought his remaining magic to bear and chanted a single spell—the gargoyle's touch. It would turn them to stone, and thereby make them into a permanent fixture of the real world, and cut them from Hybras completely. It was a terrible thing to have to do, but there was no other way.

The spell worked swiftly, starting at their extremities and working its way in. Flesh and attire turned into stone, from many colors to a uniform grey, and in that broken circle they froze, forever. For Qwan it was a very slow process, for in that final moment time seemed to stop, as if giving him a moment to look back on everything and wonder. In that moment of respite, as he flew over the ocean and turned to lifeless stone, he remembered Aldreda. He remembered her clearly, so vividly! And in his mind's eye she looked to him to keep their promise. She trusted him, believed in him more than anyone, and had put her greatest treasure, her dear Elaine, under his care. That had been her last wish, her last hope, and it had meant everything to her. And now, despite everything, it would be left unfinished. As Qwan felt his heart turn to stone, he felt the chill of sorrow and the pain of regret. It lanced through him faster than the spell, and tore at his mind with unbearable grief. How he wished it could have been different! How he yearned for another way! But it was set in stone, literally, and all other ways were closed. His life and Elaine's were set apart, their fates on different paths, and nothing could change that now. It was as unassailable as the workings of the stars, and as certain as the voyage from life to death.

"I am sorry," Qwan whispered, tears filling his eyes. "Forgive me, Aldreda…" A tear fell, and on his face it froze into stone, and his eyes, glinting with the tears of sorrow and regret, became an empty and cold façade of rock.

His last thought was that he would never see them again; that fate, in its cruel way, would separate them forever. But little did he know that it was not over. It would not be for thousands of years, but in time he would see that Aldreda's legacy had carried on through Elaine—through a courageous and strong child who grew up to be like her mother. Elaine would pass, but the next generation would come, followed by another and another subsequently. Qwan did not know it then, but he would see that future manifestation of her blood, and most certainly of her courageous heart. He would see it in an elf who would become a great friend and ally, one who would save the People as her ancestor had, one who would do incredible things and change the world for the better by the courage of her heart and the might of her spirit. He would meet Aldreda again in an elf named Holly Short.

The circle of warlocks fell from the crimson sky, and plunged into the roiling waters of the ocean, where they would remain for many centuries. As they sank into the blackness of the sea, into its cold embrace, the whole world seemed to flash a brilliant white. And then, after that glorious blaze, the island of Hybras was gone.

* * *

And so it all came to an end, in chaos and vanishing, like the final burst of light from a wavering flame; like the final glimmer of life in a dying heart. The People, the great race that had held the world in its hand for centuries, was gone, giving rise to the dominance of mankind. All that had been theirs, all that they had bled for and believed as their descendants' inheritance, was theirs no more. They were departed from that world, and all that they abandoned fell to the humans. No longer did the fairy walk the lands. No longer did their ways pervade creation.

Ages would pass in their absence, and with them the People, all of their ways and their marks upon the earth, would be forgotten, passed into myth and legend. They would become tales and rumors, shadows of what they really were, distorted and untrue.

Their great civilization was no more, with its passing crumbling all of its creations, all of its wonder, all of its glory, and all of its beauty. It would return to the earth from which it came, buried by time, just like all constructs of power and control, all doomed to fall apart in a final display of chaos and destruction. And upon their ruins would rise and fall the empires of mankind, which would follow the very same fate, leaving only bones and artifacts as proof that they ever existed. Such was the fate of all things. Such was the fragility of creation.

Yet despite their absence, the People would live on, surviving beneath the surface by the strength of their hearts and the determination of their collective spirit. They would struggle against the workings of fate, against their terrible allotment, all in an effort to regain a shred of their former dignity. Many hundreds of years would pass, and in time they would become a great people once again, risen from the ashes of their past. And with their rise came the age-old question that never lost its relevance—whether history would repeat itself. The People were ever on a knife's edge, and a tip in the wrong direction would mark a turning point into the very same madness that had nearly destroyed them. Would they fall into it once more? Would they destroy and be destroyed as they had done in the past? The humans were above, and they below, and the time would come when they would meet again. It was fated, as certain as the coming of dawn, and as terrible a truth as the coming of death. Indeed, time had a way of making things come full-circle.

Humanity would have grown as well, but so would its hubris and insanity. The People would see no good in the humans, no redeeming qualities, and they would lament the destruction of the world at their hands. They would remain hidden, reticent, and distrustful of their conquerors. They would hate the humans, just as they had in the past, and fear them just as that past had taught them to. But all things changed, even the hearts of the shallow mud men, and perhaps goodness was always there, hidden behind the deceptive layer of a species' terrible acts. How easy it was to judge a whole race by its past. How simple it was for the wronged to hate.

But despite all their hate, and all that had happened in the past, the future would see a twist of fate that was all but impossible; an occurrence that, by the most infinitesimal of odds, would see a miracle that would defy all the voices of the past, all of the nightmares. Humanity and fairykind would meet once more, on the land they had shared ages ago, but this time it would be different. Instead of hatred, fear, and ignorance, there would be kindness, goodness, and understanding. There would be a common ground. There would be friendship. This miracle, this unparalleled wonder, would transpire in the most unlikely of places, and between the most opposite of souls, such a stroke of impossible genius that even the stars would be moved to awe. Instead of a clashing of blades, there would be a joining of hearts, and a joining of effort, a unification by trial that would make man and fairy companions. Indeed, despite everything, there would be trust between them, and even love.

No one would have ever foreseen it, not Qwan or Frond or all the scholars of fairy and man combined. The impossible would transpire, and it would change the world forever, not in blood and killing, but in courage and friendship. On a moonlit night, by an ancient oak at the bend of a river, it would begin anew; a new chapter in the story of these two separate races. All those thousands of years of separation brought them to that point in time, that place in the silent wonder of the night, and from that point onward things would change. The world would bear witness to the true potential of these people, the potential they only held together. It would be made clear as crystal, pure and wondrous, by the actions of two starkly opposite souls—a human and a fairy. After ages of darkness and generations of brokenness, the world would have a chance to be whole again. That chance, so unlikely and so precious, would come through two lives cast together and intertwined by the vicissitudes of fate. These two lives would accomplish what war never could. The lives of a brilliant young man and a courageous elf would undo it all.

~The End~

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I hope that you enjoyed this little story, you who read it. I hope that this rushed tale****—my last contribution to this community****—has been a source of entertainment. I guess it is fitting to end where it all began, right? Generic I know, but there is a sort of comfort in the familiar, a friendship with the conventional that many unconsciously bear. Anyway, that's it for me****** and Artemis Fowl. I had a lot of fun. I hope you did too, reader.****

**JohnCreel**


	10. Author's Update

**Hello everyone!**

**Sorry for the fusillade of necroposts (I don't always necropost, but when I do, I necropost for a relatively good reason). I just want to notify my current followers of something. I will not post in these stories again after this, and therefore not deluge the front page with old completed works. I apologize, on my knees, with the utmost humility.  
**

**As some of you may know, I have been working on a novel of my own for a little while. I actually finished the rough version a year ago, and after having a few people read it I tackled making a good copy for publishing, which was very time consuming. My intention was to publish it sooner, but it is my first book and as such there were many things that I needed to do that I did not originally anticipate, naturally there being setbacks and vexatious little roadblocks. Now it is published, albeit _self-published_, and it felt only right to share such information on this site. This is a community of writers and readers, and it is where I started writing fiction, so I see no harm in sharing this information here with you, my readers.**

**I understand that this is blatant and shameless self-promotion, but it is also my understanding that such is rather necessary these days. Subtlety doesn't work very well. You can completely disregard this update if you want, throw tomatoes at me, etc, that's perfectly alright. I just want to inform those who may be interested. I am offering the eBook variant of it for free (on Lulu), pro tempore, so no this is not for my profit (So mods, please don't outright eviscerate me). That version is a lot more simple in its looks, as in less fancy text and other such decorations due to the whole epub conversion process (There's also a print version though).**

**Go to my profile if you are interested (there is a link to my website, where more info is present). Regardless of what you do, I would like to thank you for reading this, and thank you even more for reading my fan fictions. Without this place, and without you, I would have never started writing. So once again, thank you, and all the best!**

**Regards,**

**Spencer (AKA John Creel)**


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